Finding Prince Charming
by Celtic Quill
Summary: Sometimes, Prince Charming rides a white horse. Sometimes, he lives in a castle. Sometimes, he is the person you would least expect. And sometimes, Prince Charming isn't a prince at all.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I wasn't going to add a new story anytime soon, considering I have six other WIPs, but the idea for this rooted inside of me and could not be brushed aside.

This fanfiction certainly is a love story, but I like to think of it as something deeper than just two characters beating the odds and falling in love. To me, this story is really about what it means to find yourself, how big of a part your sexuality is in relation to your life (especially when you are bred with a strictly religious upbringing telling you it's wrong to be who you are), and, perhaps most prevalent here, how family is oftentimes not blood related, but is the people who love you unconditionally and are there for you no matter what.

**Note:** This is **slightly AU****,** in that Quinn never got pregnant so she still lives with both of her parents; Rachel is dating Finn but the event at the end of last night's episode never happened (I won't specify so that I won't spoil someone who hasn't had the chance to watch it yet); Quinn is dating Sam, who never moved away. It takes place in their senior year of high school, and most of the events of the show do match up with this story, but if you have any questions, feel free to ask and I will be more than happy to answer! :)

I genuinely lovelovelove reviews so much and getting feedback to know what you like or don't like, what you think I could improve on, etc. XD Please leave feedback, for it truly does encourage me to continue updating. Your opinion matters! Thank you for giving this story a chance, and I really hope you love it.

**One more thing:** *The studio audience groans comically at this ridiculously long Author's Note.* This will be told from **Quinn's first person POV,** just to avoid any confusion. :)

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><p><strong>CHAPTER ONE<strong>

When you grow up and your parents tell you bedtime stories and fairy tales, the lead female character always gets a prince. Whether a figurative or literal prince depends on the story, but it is always a very pleasing, very wholesome, very "romantic" relationship between a naïve young girl and her dashing _prince_ charming.

And ever since I can remember, I wasn't interested.

Hearing fabulous tales of dragons and royalty and pretty girls wearing pretty dresses? Hell yeah, count me in!

Hearing about those pretty girls always ending up with stereotypically dashing _men?_ Even from a young age, I just didn't connect with that.

And when I became a bit older, like elementary school age, I would find myself thinking, _How come the pretty girl can't marry the princess? Why does she have to be with the prince?_

I asked this question once, posed to my mom over sugar cookies and milk after school. To this day, I still vividly recall the look on her face: sharp inhalation through puckered lips; eyes popping to twice their normal size; the color and previous joyfulness on her face draining away.

She told me, very firmly, "Because that isn't how it works, Quinnie. Girls go with princes, and boys go with princesses. Any other way is wrong." And then this small, self-assured smile crept across her cherry-colored lips and she ruffled my pale blonde hair before returning to her snack.

Thankfully, I've grown out of those troubling thoughts. Seriously, I was a weird little kid, huh?

Now I am seventeen years old. I am in my senior year of high school and am dating the _cutest_ boy in the entire history of the world! His name is Sam Evans, and he is the epitome of what they mean when they say 'prince charming.'

Blond hair like cornsilk, denim blue eyes, a gigantic smile that lights up a room; he's tall, broad-shouldered, co-captain of the football team. Just overall gorgeous. And best of all? He's totally into me and treats me like the princess I am.

I couldn't ask for anything better.

It's Friday after school, which means: Glee Club practice.

If you repeat this to anyone, you will _seriously_ regret it, but here you go: IactuallyreallydolikeGleeClub,okay? I used to hate it, resented Coach Sylvester for making me infiltrate the nerd herd for her. But now I'm not even on the Cheerios anymore, and here I am, still steadily attending every Glee meeting.

I dunno, it's just kind of fun sometimes. Like when Sam and I share flirty duets, or those rare occasions where I actually have my own solo. It's…empowering.

I am on my way to the choir room when a familiar voice calls out: "Hey, Quinn, wait up!"

The voice is distinctively female: peppier than an over-caffeinated cheerleader, full of sunbeams and rainbows and childishly optimistic happiness. And irritating as hell, grating against my last nerve, as if determined to rub my patience raw.

I halt in my tracks, slowly turn around to face my doom.

Yep.

None other than Rachel Berry.

Her long chestnut hair is set in loose curls today; her thick bangs are fluffy, framing her dark eyebrows. She's smiling her cheeky smile, displaying perfect pearl teeth and round pinchable baby-apple cheeks.

Abruptly, my heart lurches forward, picks up speed; it's because I was walking really fast, and I just stopped all of a sudden – you know what I'm talking about?

"Hello, Rachel," I say coolly. Why does she always try to act like we're best friends? She suffers from sporadic memory loss, apparently, because sometimes she just entirely forgets that I – oh, I don't know – that _I can't stand to be around her! _UGH!

"I like your outfit today," she says, no trace of sarcasm or hidden meaning. Her compliments are always genuine, and perhaps that's why I resent receiving them so much. What is she, a total kiss-ass?

I glance down at my apparel.

I wear a pale yellow sundress with tiny white polka dots all over it, trimmed with this really awesome square neckline made of white lace. A delicate white silk cardigan is thrown over it, and my feet sport a pair of new wooden clogs with big yellow faux-daisies on top of each.

My lips tighten into a forced, closed smile. "Thanks. Um, yours is…interesting."

I, however, am not genuine. Because she doesn't look '_interesting;' _'interesting' is the word you use when something is actually kooky and unpleasant, but you don't know how to say that non-offensively.

No, she looks...okay…actually really pretty…like, I guess, _super_ pretty….

Like, seriously, her style has improved so much over the years. This is a far cry from the dowdy-librarian-assistant wardrobe of yore.

She's wearing a pomegranate-colored puff-sleeved dress made of velvet with these big round golden buttons vertically lining the middle to make her short body appear longer. Black tights peek out, appearing from mid-thigh to ankles; then, her dainty feet are covered by golden ballet flats that bring out the buttons of her dress.

Her lips, painted a shade that somehow perfectly matches the purplish-red of her dress, pull back into a smile that is positively _radiant_. She always appears to glow from inside out, as if she drinks a glass of sunshine for breakfast each morning. I notice that the lipstick makes her teeth look even whiter than usual, but it's not like I notice her teeth or her smile that much anyway, so what do I know?

"Thank you!" she exclaims. "It took me fifteen whole minutes to put this ensemble together. I bet you just threw yours together, huh?"

My eyebrows skyrocket at this; I plant one of my French-manicured hands onto my hip.

She notices this and quickly backtracks. "Oh, no, no! I didn't mean it like _that_; I just meant, you know, I'm saying I'm jealous that you're, uhm, so skilled with clothes that you can effortlessly put something together in the blink of the eye, but it takes me a while to, um, get the perfect look together. Seriously, Quinn, you should be a wardrobe consultant on Broadway or something; I would totally hire you, and – "

While she babbles, rather than grow increasingly irritated, I actually feel my incredulous expression morphing into a tiny but sincere smile. Something inside of my stomach, something deep down, gets all fluttery and warm; I tell myself that it's because I'm nauseated from her obnoxious rambling, or maybe I'm just hungry.

Finally, I have to interrupt her: "All right, it's okay; I get it." Without consulting my brain first, the hand on my hip transfers to the soft velvet of the petite girl's shoulder.

I look into her eyes so she'll know I'm not mad at her, and she looks back, relieved; I dart my gaze over her shoulder, ignore the quickening of my pulse, and yank my hand away as if she is a burning stovetop.

I don't like it when she looks at me.

Looks _back_ at me, into my eyes like that.

'Cause, you know, it's just so stalkerish-loser-_creepy_ of her.

I swallow and choke on nothing. "What did you want, Rachel?" I try to sound as unaffected, as careless and I'm-too-busy-for-you-to-waste-my-precious-time, as possible.

"Oh, I was just going to ask what you have planned for the weekend," she says, still ever-so chipper.

Of course, she is completely unaware of the awkwardness that swirls between us like a cloud of discount perfume; _she _is blissfully ignorant to the people passing by, to our fellow classmates, these all-seeing and all-knowing gossipmongers who sniff out scandal like sharks circling bloodied water for dinner.

Not that there's anything scandalous about us talking. We're just two girlfriends chatting in the hallway. Girl friends, space between the two words, I mean. You know what, just scratch the 'friends' part altogether, 'cause we're not even that.

"I'm going on a date with Sam." I start walking forward, away from her, making it clear that this conversation is over. My tone heavily implies the '_not_ that it's any of _your_ business' that is invisibly tagged onto the end of my answer.

She, of course, is as clueless as ever. "Oh, okay!" She starts walking at my side, somehow matching me stride-for-stride despite her short legs and my long ones. "That sounds like fun. Finn is taking me to Breadsticks tomorrow. Hey, maybe we could double-date?"

I pick up my pace, my heart threatening to burst from my chest, and my stomach is churning, and all I want to do is get the hell _away_.

I think: _God, Rachel, just leave me ALONE!_

I say: "No." The word is too abrupt: too loud and too final. It's an echo, a fist, a thousand thoughts within one syllable.

Rachel, perhaps more attentive than I give her credit for, notices the heaviness; suddenly, her arms are swinging at her sides and her already prim-as-a-princess posture somehow manages to straighten even more. Uh-oh…this means Determined Rachel Mode.

"You know, Quinn, I don't know why you dislike me so much," she says, "but considering our boyfriends are such good friends, I think you refusing to give me a chance is rather selfish."

My stomach twists; I stare straight ahead, marching left foot, right foot.

"I think it would be in their best interests if we became actual friends," she continues in that purposeful voice of hers, "and then we could do fun couple-y things like double dating and maybe we could even have a Couples Night with board game tournaments at my house or something." By the too-casual way she proposes this, I can tell she has actually been planning for a Quinn&Sam and Rachel&Finn friendship merge for a while.

"Look, I'm just not into that," I snap, refusing to look at her, even though I can _feel_ her gaze probing my profile, dissecting my reaction with those sharp eyes of hers. She's a hawk, waiting to swoop in and claim her prize. Which, in this case, would be me bending to her will and giving in just so she can make her boyfriend happy. _Pathetic._

"Into what?" she inquires, barking the question like a relentless reporter grilling a criminal.

"Into _you_," I hiss, and then my face burns from the way that can be taken, and _ohGodohGodohGod, I'm an idiot; why did I word it that way?_

So I quickly rephrase: "Like, I mean, I'm not into being your friend." I try to put as much acid into my tone as possible, but rather than sizzle, my words barely produce a _pop._ I just sound tired, defensive.

"Okay?" I ask. It's not a rhetorical question tagged on the end; it's a plea for her to understand, shut up, and leave me _alone._

But instead of getting all angry and offended or sad or whatever, Rachel grabs my arm, pulling me to a stop. I've always been maybe two, three inches taller than her, but the wedges I wear today give me another inch and I feel like I am positively towering over the short girl. And yet, _she's_ the one who holds the power right now.

"Quinn Fabray, I accept your challenge!" she says, flashing another brilliant smile. "I'm going to make it impossible for you to dislike me." She releases my arm and leaves me standing here, stunned, as she flounces off to Glee Club, her hips sashaying back and forth in a way that makes my throat dry out.

Her words reverberate inside my skull, like stones pitched into a cave.

"_I'm going to make it impossible for you to dislike me."_

And I feel cold, a damp chill all through my bones, as I think: _That's exactly what I'm afraid of._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Why hello there! :D Thank you for sticking with my fanfiction all the way to chapter two; I hope you'll be in it for the long run. I just want to say a quick "thank you" to all of those who showed support by alerting, favoriting, reading, and especially to the one person who reviewed. :) Please review, you guys, because it truly does brighten my day. I _want_ to hear your feedback on what you like about the story and what you think I could improve on.

**Also:** This story does start out kind of angsty, but I promise it gets a lot more light-hearted later on. :) I hope you really enjoy this next chapter; please **review!** XD

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><p><strong>CHAPTER TWO<strong>

"You did not!" I laugh, the sound easy and carefree as it floats from my lips.

"I swear it's true!"

"You seriously tried to steal an entire cart of candy when you were a kid?"

Sam smiles back at me, his eyes lighting up. "Look, okay, I was seven! We were at the drug store, I grabbed a cart, filled it to the top with all the candy it could carry, and tried to wheel it out."

"Who would have thought I was in the presence of a criminal mastermind?" I joke.

"I had a huge sweet tooth!" he says defensively.

"_Had?_" I quirk an eyebrow and point my fork towards the _three_ various slices of cheesecakes splayed out in front of him.

"Okay, _have_," he allows.

"So did you get busted?"

"Hardcore. You didn't know you were dating a man with a record, did you? A seedy and shady past, not safe for a young woman to get involved with."

"_Well, I'll be._" I press my hand over my heart, tilt my head to the side, and flutter my eyelashes. In a Southern belle accent, I coo, "_Sammy Evans, how on EARTH could you EVAH' trick a sweet little lady like meeeee?_"

"_Easily,_" he drawls in a Southern gentleman's voice. "_Like this._"

And he reaches over and takes my forkless hand resting on the table into his; his big paw of a hand swallows mine up, fingers wrapping around mine like I am a small child. He brings my hand to his full mouth and plants a soft, lingering kiss on the back of it. He looks up at me from below lowered eyebrows as he does so, a sultry look that should make any girl swoon. That smoldering stare, mixed in with his hand cupping mine and the feeling of his lips brushing against my bare skin? I should be a goner.

I wait for my stomach to flutter at his touch. … It doesn't.

It never does.

I flash him a coy grin, give him my prettiest tinkling girlie-girl giggle. He releases my hand, smiling in a way that indicates he is obviously pleased with himself.

I turn my attention to the respectable _one_ slice of triple chocolate cheesecake on the frosted plate before me. I focus on spearing some with my chilled silver fork. Stare at the dark brown hard-fluffy cheesecake-y goodness. Concentrate on the sweet, decadent flavor as it enters my mouth.

Distract myself with anything other than thinking about _her_.

About Rachel Berry.

Ever since yesterday in the hallway before Glee rehearsal, I haven't been able to get her – and that confident, self-satisfied swing of her hips as she sauntered away – out of my mind. Or her words, spoken in her angelic and always cheerful voice: _"I'm going to make it impossible for you to dislike me."_

Those words play in a loop around my mind, crescendoing and harmonizing, a melody of its own.

I seriously hate her so much. She's _sooo_ annoying and fake and overly happy. GOD, seriously, who is _that_ happy all the time? Only crazy secret-psychos are, that's who!

I hate her so much, and it's making me think about her non-stop, and it's just so annoying, I swear I could just –

"You okay?"

"What?" My eyes dart up guiltily from the tip of my cheesecake slice, which I have been furiously smashing through the prongs of my fork.

"You've got a vendetta against your perfectly innocent dessert," Sam says, one corner of his mouth pulling upward in a mixture of concern and amusement. "I mean, I can understand whooping your cheesecake's ass if it was any flavor _other_ than chocolate, but now you're just messing with the preferred flavor of the gods, and that can get you into some seriously bad karma."

I force another laugh, but this one is too loud and obviously fake. "Oh, no, sorry; I just spaced out for a sec. You know me; Little Miss Dreamer."

Okay…yeah…I have _never_ referred to myself as 'Little Miss Dreamer' before. Nor do I usually space out. And what is up with my _way_ too breezy tone?

Sam lifts his eyebrows, twists his mouth in that way he has when trying not to grin, and shakes his head. "All right. If you say so."

I change the subject. "Are your parents going to the Open House on Wednesday?"

"Yep."

"Cool."

"Are yours?"

"Uh-huh."

"Cool, cool."

Awkward silence as we both pick at our desserts.

Sometimes, conversation with Sam is so easy, marked by quick smiles and effortless laughter. Like with our bantering over his "criminal past." It's moments like those where I feel so lucky and so happy to have him as my boyfriend.

And then other times, there's just this…_lull_ or something. This drag, this feeling of not being connected, these brief bursts of suffocating silence that make me fidget and squirm. And I wonder – the thought lasting only a moment in climax but lingering afterward like a bad smell – if maybe I _shouldn't_ be with him, if maybe I would be better off single.

But that thought is absurd, and so I always waft it aside and inwardly roll my eyes at my foolishness.

"I'm going to need your help," he says, looking up from his food and meeting my eyes.

"With what?"

"I'm almost failing my pre-cal class. Coach is _not_ happy with me, to put it mildly. You think you can help me keep her and my parents far apart on Wednesday?"

"Sam, I'm pretty sure they're going to want to talk to her to discuss setting up some recruiters to watch you play sometime soon. Considering you're banking on a football scholarship and all…." Sam is so lucky; he knows exactly what he wants to do after high school, and how he's going to get there.

Me? I haven't even planned as far ahead as _breakfast_ tomorrow morning. Thinking about the utter vastness of the future scares me to no end, fills me with a panicked and empty feeling, so I just _don't_. Think about it, that is.

He sighs, the sound tired, and his broad shoulders sag below the red letterman jacket he wears with pride, a symbol of popularity and glory and everything that our peers covet. "You're right. Why do you always have to be so right about everything, Quinn?" He smiles at me, affection shining in his sweet blue eyes.

"Some people are just naturally more awesome than others." I smirk and toss him a wink. "I think it's a gift _and_ a curse."

Sam chuckles. "You know what else is a gift and a curse?" He doesn't wait for me to answer. "Eating three pieces of cheesecake. On one hand, my taste buds are rejoicing, but on the other, my stomach wants to punch me in the face."

"Tell your stomach to leave your face alone," I say, "since it's the only reason I'm even dating you."

"Yep," Sam goes along with it and twirls a finger towards his eyes, nose, mouth. "This is the moneymaker."

I laugh. "You're full of it!"

I turn to my own dessert, about to polish it off.

"Full of love for you," he responds. It is uttered quickly, meaningfully, and he gnaws upon his bottom lip.

We haven't said the Big Three Words to each other yet. That, among other key couple milestones, is unchartered territory. We've been dating steadily for four months now, so it was bound to be said sooner or later by my boyfriend, but I am not prepared for hearing him indicate having such strong feelings towards me.

I look into his eyes, at the sincere expression all over his sweet, schoolboy face, and suddenly I have lost my appetite. I want to discreetly push my plate away, but I am frozen, staring his feelings and vulnerability right in the face.

"I love you, Quinn," he says. I know he means it. And _GodohGod_ how I wish he didn't.

I don't know how to feel. Panicked, mostly. And also inexplicably guilty. I don't know why these are the two dominant emotions I am encountering; they shouldn't even be here at all in this instant.

He laughs this quiet, embarrassed laugh. "I'm sorry that the first time I say it, it isn't, like, this epic romantic event, 'cause that's what you deserve. But our first date ever was at Breadsticks, after our first duet together, remember? No, actually, I can't claim to be going for a cheesy nostalgia factor. I just had to say it. That I love you. 'Cause, um, I" he swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing "…I really, really do."

I am staring at him; I can feel my own eyes widening, my lips parting. I am freaking out on the inside, and my palms are getting all clammy. But it's not in a good way. It's not in excitement. I watch as his earnest, honest face begins to turn uncertain, maybe even scared.

"Not that you have to say it back or anything," he adds quickly. His cheeks are reddening, this deep blush that spreads all the way down his long neck.

And I hate myself. For not feeling anything when my boyfriend of four months admitted beautiful, wonderful feelings for me. For the way he is blushing, the way he is twisting his fingers together, eyes zipping anywhere around the restaurant _but_ at me.

But most of all, I hate myself for not being able to say it back. For being _incapable_ of saying those three words back to him. Truthfully, at least.

And for being incapable of _feeling_ those three words back to him. Eight letters and yet so much meaning. So much 'yes' or 'no;' 'right' or 'wrong.'

But don't they say that saying something enough makes it true? That you eventually begin to feel what you pretend you feel, to become who you pretend you are?

So I lean over and place my hands on top of his, stopping his crazy fidgeting. "Sam," I say gently. "Look at me."

He does, and I make myself smile a soft and convincing smile, and I say: "I love you, too."

And he is beaming like it's Christmas morning, and he is scooting toward the edge of his booth's seat so he can reach half his body across the table.

His hands cradle my face and he kisses me long and low and lovingly. And I kiss him back, urgently and needing for my heart to be into it, praying that I will feel sparks and butterflies and stolen breath and the whole damn enchilada.

But I feel nothing, save for a bit of discomfort and more guilt unfurling deep in my stomach like a banner of barbed wire.

The hollowness that suffocates inside of me at his kiss scares me more than anything else in the world.

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><p>Sam drops me off at my house after Breadsticks. He is walking on air, never stops grinning, keeps grabbing at me – at my hand, my shoulder, my waist. He says "I love you" to me a few more times, but I can't bring myself to lie to him again, so each time he says it, I respond with a fervent kiss, desperate, and I don't know if I do it for my benefit or his.<p>

He tells me he'll call me later and plants a big one on me right on my doorstep, under the porch light. I pull away first, wanting nothing more than to be away from him and have some much-needed alone time. I hurry inside my house, locking the door behind me to seal the date away from me, to keep out his sweet words and affectionate touching.

"Fun night?"

I scream, nearly jump out of my skin. I whirl around to face the culprit, my hand pressing over my hammering heart.

It's my dad, sitting beside my mom on the couch. The TV is on in front of them, a commercial for a popular coffee house.

They both laugh good-naturedly at my reaction. Dad smiles at me, and instantly most of my unease melts away. I walk over to my parents and first let my dad envelop me in a big bear hug (I feel so safe and protected already) before I lean into my mom and let her kiss me atop my head. Being with them is just what I need after such a stressful night.

"Yeah, it was great!" I don't feel too bad about lying to him, considering the alternative is far too messy to get into right now. Better to sort my feelings out later, to keep my sinful thoughts at bay until I can sneak into my room and bring them out to do away with on my own.

"Good." Dad gives a single, approving nod. "I like Sam; he's a great kid. Though no one will _ever_ be good enough for my little princess, he definitely comes about as close as any boy can ever get."

_As any BOY can ever get…._ The specifics of that phrasing make my stomach turn.

Mom winks conspiratorially and flashes me a thumbs up. "Aren't you glad I convinced you to give him a shot, Quinnie?"

"Yes, Mom; for the thousandth time, you are awesome and I will forever remain in your debt," I say playfully. I smile and it feels like carving through cement. But they don't notice that I'm faking my easygoing happiness. They never do.

I bound up the long staircase leading to the second floor and slip into my bedroom, down the hallway.

I love my room; it's my sanctuary.

The walls are painted a beautiful pale blue, because my parents had been convinced they were having a boy when my mom was pregnant with me. They wanted to be surprised by the true gender, so they had asked the doctor not to tell them when they went in for her ultrasounds and check-ups.

Mom said she just had a feeling that I was going to be male, so, in celebration, they'd painted the large nursery the color of the sky on a sunny, cloudless day. Of course, later this nursery was converted into a "big kid" bedroom, and now has evolved into a place fit for a teenage girl.

Anyway, so my mom thought I was going to be a boy. Hence, the name Quinn as my middle name (which I go by instead of my real first name, Lucy, but that's a story for another time): had I ended up being a boy after all, they had planned on naming me Quentin, after my dad's father, who died a few years after my parents got married.

So, yeah, my room has these beautiful, calming walls covered all over with pictures of me and my friends, particularly ones of me and Sam (like those vertical four-or-five-pictures-per-strip photo booth ones they have in the movie theaters and the Lima Mall). My favorite Bible quotes are painted in swirling lettering, one verse on each wall, in a bold black color.

My bed is gigantic: it's all white sheets and fluffy white pillows and an expensive rust-colored Egyptian cotton duvet. The bed has four dark-cherry-wood posts with intricate designs carved into them, and a beautiful cream-colored silk canopy that makes me feel sort of like I'm sleeping in a really comfortable, really fancy tent.

I set my designer Guess purse on my wooden bureau with an oval mirror built into it. Right when I set my purse down, my cell phone vibrates noisily inside of it.

I pull out my phone: 'Sammy-Poo' (yeah, I know, I'm shameless with my cutesy loverbird nicknames) blinks up at me, followed by an icon of an envelope with a scribbled-upon note peeking out. Sam has texted me, less than ten minutes after dropping me off. Any normal girlfriend would be thrilled by this, by the fact that her sweet and caring boyfriend is making a point to show that he is thinking about her.

But I just feel exhausted, tired of dealing with so much in one night.

I open the text and read it, and his words only fill me with more dread.

'_hey, babe, im stopped at a red light and just wanted to say that I LOVE U. those words will never get old when i say them 2 u.'_

I groan and immediately hit the 'Delete' option; my hands have a distinct quiver as I turn my phone off and hide it from myself in the back of my sock drawer.

Feeling sick to my stomach, I plop onto my back; lying on my back with my head propped upon a mountain of squishy pillows, I look up at the collage of cheap glow-in-the-dark star and planet stickers I put up there when I was in the sixth grade and never bothered to peel off (maybe because of nostalgia, maybe because of laziness; I don't know).

I close my eyes: I see Rachel – confident stride; sashay of teasing, taunting hips; that damn smile, so sunny it could cure every disease in the world: my eyes fly open again, heart zooming sickeningly fast.

It's hot in here; when did it get so hot in here, so positively _stifling?_

I jump out of bed, suddenly bound by a nervous energy.

I pace back and forth.

Wring my hands together.

Draw in slow, deep breaths; let them out slowly from puckered lips.

My perfect, charming, wonderful boyfriend of four months told me that he loves me tonight – _multiple_ times. He texted me just to reiterate this, proving to be incredibly thoughtful and a true gentleman.

My amazing _boyfriend_ frigging _loves me_…

…and all I feel is empty, ill to the bone, sealed away so tightly in this tiny box that I can't breathe, I can't breathe, _I can't BREATHE!_

I drop to my knees before my bed and force myself to inhale, exhale, inhale, inhale; the tears arrive so quickly that they don't even have time to well up.

They're suddenly just _there_, spilling swiftly down my hot cheeks, dangling from the sides of my nose, dripping from my chin and landing with minute splashes upon my folded hands.

My hands, folded so tightly that my knuckles flash white, are set into my lap.

I bow my head.

Keep my eyes close.

Force myself to keep breathing as calmly as possible.

I will my heart to stop pounding so hard, so fast.

And then I pray.

This same prayer, my most secret one, that I always turn back to whenever I can no longer hide from myself and must face the ugly, unbearable truth for a moment before tucking it back into the deepest, darkest recesses of my mind where only nightmares lay.

I pray: _Dear God, I'm so sorry! I don't want to be this way! Please take away my disgusting thoughts and wrong feelings. I really don't want to like girls. I want to be pure; I want to like boys. I want to love Sam back like he loves me. Please heal me from this sickness. I don't want to be a sinner! Please, please, take away these horrible thoughts I have about liking girls. Please forgive me, God. Amen._

Sometimes after I pray about this, I feel better. I feel comforted, like He really is going to _finally_ cure me. He will take away my nasty longings and replace them with the purity of heterosexual romantic interests.

But tonight, I feel only the echo of my own desperation, so thick it chokes me. It twines around my senses like a snare, trapping me in my own panic.

It's not fair!

I didn't choose to be this way.

I didn't choose to like girls.

I don't like them; I _can't!_ ...

... But I do.

I will admit it now, because I can always go back to lying to myself. Back to pretending and putting on my best mask of Perfect Quinn with Perfect Life and Perfect Boyfriend.

And so I pull out my Diary, the one place where I can say anything and everything without any judgment, and I flip to the cleanest page. I have a whole lot to write. This time, I might not even scratch it out afterward or rip up the page and tear it into little pieces.

The fine tip of my black-inked pen digs into the paper as I scratch out what I have been hiding from.

The truth.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks to all of those who've shown support in some way or another. You rock! I hope you guys love this next chapter. Please remember to review. :) I love feedback, even constructive criticism, just as long as it's worded politely, haha.

And without further ado, here's some fresh hot Faberry goodness! ;D

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER THREE<strong>

Free mini-donuts and French-roasted coffee.

These are the only things I find myself enjoying about church on Sunday morning.

Does that make me a horrible person? No…but my church would certainly have me believe that _other_ things about me do.

Maybe that's why I'm feeling bitterer than the Styrofoam cup of java I grip in one fist. I use my other hand to add some creamer and sugar into its heady blackness, watching as the color swirls lighter and lighter.

I drop a coffee stirrer into my cup and move out of the breakfast line. I try to be stealthy, to blend into the corners of the room like a wandering shadow, but of course, he finds me.

Sam: sweet, oblivious, suffocating Sam, suddenly materializing before me like a Gypsy's summoned curse. He looks handsome in his Sunday best: a royal blue button-down shirt that looks amazing against the stark contrast of white-blonde hair and those blue, blue eyes. He's even wearing black dress pants and black shoes so shiny that the overhead lighting glints up from them.

But his shoes are the only part of him that gleams. The rest is tired, dulled.

Like his eyes: worried and self-conscious and afraid. And how his hand holding his Styrofoam cup of orange juice sports fingernails that have been bitten down to the nub.

My stomach churns at all of this, at how he doesn't even _try_ to hide his pain and insecurities. That's where he and I differ so greatly: Sam is the brave one, willing to show his emotions and reach out to people, ready to communicate. Whereas I like to pretend that everything is all right, draping myself in a cloak of indifference that I refuse to ever untie from my shoulders.

"Why haven't you texted me back all weekend?" he asks. It's not an accusation, but rather a question that is conceived of equal parts concern, curiosity, and a bit of an offended edge. "You didn't answer any of my phone calls either." He bites down on his lower lip, looking so much like a lost little puppy.

My sweet, dependable golden retriever puppy, owned by a girl who is allergic to his breed but keeps him anyway.

I can't really tell him the truth: how I kept my cell phone off the entire weekend, not wanting to deal with anyone, least of all my boyfriend who has professed deep feelings for me that he thinks I return whole-heartedly, but really can't even reciprocate an ounce of.

So I do what I do best.

I lie.

"I'm so sorry; my parents grounded me because I forgot to do my chores before going on our date," I say smoothly. The frown twitching down my lips is genuinely apologetic, just not for the reason he thinks.

"You couldn't get on Facebook either?"

"They grounded me from the computer, too. I know, I know; my parents suck. Sorry."

The relief all over Sam's boyish face is so genuine that it actually _hurts_ for me to look at. "Oh! Okay! Good!" He instantly bubbles up, shoulders straightening to make his tall posture now absolutely tower over me. He smiles this big, wide smile. "I was worried that maybe I had…you know…like, freaked you out with the whole 'I love you' thing. Even though you said it back, I was just, like, worried that maybe you…you know…didn't mean it or whatever."

"Don't be silly; of course I mean it!" I stretch on my tiptoes and plant a quick kiss on his cheek.

I'm surprised a bolt of lightning doesn't shatter the stained glass ceiling mural of Jesus to jagged bits all around us and strike me down with it.

Sam's eyes twinkle, finally matching his shiny, shiny shoes. "I would so kiss you romantically right now, but we're in church, and there are all these old people around, so…yeah." He chuckles.

"Yeah, better not give their fragile hearts a nasty shock after witnessing our passionate smooches," I joke, forcing an easygoing smile.

"Quinn! Sam!" My mom calls from a few yards away, hectically beckoning us forth with not just a finger, but with her entire crazily-waving hand. "The sermon is about to start; we have seats saved in the front for you two."

"Better get going," I say, "or my mom's hand may fling off her wrist and go flying into the basket of mini-donuts."

"Oh, no!" exclaims Sam, feigning panic. "We must save the mini-donuts at all costs! We have to protect them with our lives!"

At this, a sincere laugh warms me from within, finally spilling over into a fit of giggles.

He offers his arm, I link mine through his, and we follow after my mom.

I feel lighter and protected, this friendly affection at the feeling of my arm pressed against his bicep, and that's when I realize that I do love Sam.

Just not in the way he loves me.

* * *

><p>It's Monday, after school. Glee Club practice.<p>

I arrive early, taking an aisle seat in the very back. With only one chair next to mine, obviously reserved for Sam, I won't have to worry about any annoying people who can't take a hint plopping their butts beside me.

The only other people in here so far are Mercedes Jones, Kurt Hummel, Blaine Anderson, and Finn Hudson, all sitting in various spots on the risers.

Mercedes sits a row under mine, also on the aisle seat, but at the one on the opposite end. We exchanged smiles when I walked in, but that's about it. I have nothing against her, and I'll be the first to admit that girl's got a helluva lot of talent, but we don't have enough in common to actually be friends.

Kurt and Blaine are boyfriends. Neither of them like me, but it's whatever. Honestly, I hate seeing them together, because it always makes me feel so envious. They're openly gay, and yet everyone still loves them. (Well, besides a couple of moronic jocks, but even they've finally stopped their harassment.)

Kurt sits between Mercedes and Blaine: best friend and boyfriend. He leans into Blaine, holding hands; Kurt's head rests on Blaine's shoulder. I want that. What they have. Their love, so pure and true and genuine that you can see it from a mile away.

Finn perches in the front row, knowing that that's where Rachel will want to sit. Front and center, the spot she always chooses in life.

Yep, Finn is Rachel's boyfriend, and interestingly enough, also my _ex_-boyfriend. He's also a total idiot. No offense; he's a nice guy and all, he's just so…simple-minded. Plain. There's no excitement to him, you know?

Time and time again, I wonder what an exuberant, _extremely_ talented girl like Rachel sees in him. Well, besides the obvious physical appeal of gorgeous in that non-intimidating, all-American boy way. But even that's so expected, so mainstream, that I wonder how her heart can possibly race in his presence.

Speak of the she-devil herself, Rachel Berry strolls into the room. It's the end of February, so it's still pretty cold outside in our town of Lima, Ohio; her outfit reflects this fact.

My breath catches in my chest at the sight of her.

For she is a snow angel.

A bright-white knitted cap is worn over her rich, dark brown hair that cascades all around her in loosely textured waves. She wears a pure white mini-dress, long-sleeved and knee-length; and creamy white tights that lead into black booties with silver studs all over them. Her lips are devilishly red, popping so dramatically against the stark palette of her ensemble.

"Hey, Rach," Finn greets, lifting his hand in a wave.

She breaks into her trademark _gigantic_ smile, showing off every one of her perfect teeth.

_I wish that smile was directed at me._

Well, you know what they say about being careful what you wish for…

…because suddenly Rachel's gaze is shifting away from Finn, taking in the rest of the members of the room, and it finally lands on me, in the very back.

Lands on me…staring at her, like this total whacko.

And I don't think it's possible, but I swear her smile gets even _wider_ upon seeing me, but I wouldn't know because as soon as her eyes meet mine, I jerk my vision away, focusing intently on a random point of the ceiling.

I make a point to roll my eyes and fold my arms over my chest, as if _she_ is the one who has just annoyed _me_.

I wait until I'm sure the coast is clear before hazarding a glance her way again. She now sits in the chair beside Finn's, daintily, with her legs crossed at the ankles and her hands folded in her lap.

She is turned toward him, and he toward her, and when she throws her head back and unleashes this loud laugh upon the world at something he just said to her, I have the sudden urge to punch a wall.

Thankfully, Sam walks through the doors right now, wearing his trademark dark purple hoodie and a pair of dark denim blue jeans with his scuffed tennis shoes. The familiarity of his outfit gives me a sense of comfort; of sweet, safe normality.

He spots me sitting in our usual area, and this big dopey grin slips across his face, easy as melted butter. I find myself smiling back, genuinely happy to see him, though my stomach does do its guilty little jig.

His long, football star legs have him up the risers in a two, three blinks, tops, and then he is lowering himself onto the chair beside mine. And now he is lowering his head, his lips, down to mine, his full mouth parting expectantly.

I meet him halfway, providing a sweet, smacking kiss (anything other than a brief close-mouthed kiss in public is just way too icky in my opinion; it doesn't matter who you are – tonguing in public is classless and tasteless. Yeah, I'm talking to you and your girlfriends/girl of the week, Santana and Puck).

Sam's strong, muscular arm slings around my shoulders, pulling me closer to him. I lean into his side, catching a whiff of the boyish cologne I bought him for his eighteenth birthday last month.

"Hey," he says. I can't see his face from my position, but I swear I can _hear_ the smile in his voice. "I missed you."

I can't help but giggle. "Sam! We just saw each other at lunch, and then before last period in the hallway."

"Yeah, but that was over an hour ago; much too long for me to go without seeing your beautiful face and hear your voice. Seriously, you being grounded from your phone and the internet is just eating me up inside; I miss being around you all the time."

He's being so sweet. And kind of…clingy. Maybe I should be flattered, but instead, I just feel awkward and suffocated. Suddenly, his arm is a dead weight, closing in around me, caging me away from the rest of the world.

Of course, I'm not really grounded from my phone or the internet; I just really don't want to deal with heralding a bunch of glib but sweet text messages back and forth with him. Or the hour-long phone calls we typically divulge in most nights.

"Well, you're around me _now_," I point out in what I hope passes as a breezily flirty tone. "And I think my grounding only lasts a few more days. Just be patient with my strict parents. You know how they get."

"Yeah, I do. Sorry about that. Too bad they aren't as laidback as mine, huh?"

"They're laidback," I disagree, family loyalty setting in, "they're just…particular about certain things."

"Yeah, I get you," Sam says, not wanting to get into a debate. I don't either, so I let it drop.

A burst of chatter fills the air as Santana Lopez, Brittany Pierce, Noah "Puck" Puckerman, Tina Cohen-Chang, Mike Chang, and Artie Abrams all enter the room.

"I'm telling you, it's totally possible to give yourself a permanent tattoo with a ballpoint pen!" Puck is insisting to an agitated-looking Santana (not that that's any surprise: she _always_ looks angry, pissed off, or agitated). "As long as it's sharp enough and, like, covered in special ink!"

"If you want a _caca_ design that gets infected afterward, then yeah, you're right," she says with a dramatic roll of her large brown eyes, "ballpoint pen is the way to go."

"…don't want to go to that restaurant, 'cause the waiter has it out for Asians!" Tina is saying emphatically to her boyfriend, Mike, who sighs tiredly, as if they have had this same discussion many times before.

"Tina…_he's_ Asian!" Mike says.

"Yeah, he's a hater to his own kind, and I don't appreciate it!" Tina argues.

They all filter into their regular seats: Tina and Mike together near Mercedes, Kurt, and Blaine; Puck next to Finn; Artie rolls his wheelchair and parks it beside Rachel, in the aisle; and finally, Santana and Brittany, their pinkies linked, sit down a few chairs away from Sam and me.

There's something you should know about Santana and Brittany: They're girlfriends.

Like, _girlfriends_-girlfriends.

There's something about two girls dating that always feels far more scandalous than two boys dating (well, to me, anyway). I guess maybe it's because the Gay Male Best Friend has become a funny and beloved pop culture staple of movies about women seeking love, and the GMBF always offers uncanny and sassy advice that has the audience roaring with laughter.

Now, I know that the GMBF is kind of a disservice to the gay community, since it portrays all gay guys in the same way. Plus, it's not like the GMBF ever have their _own_ relationships onscreen to give themselves uncanny and sassy love advice about; it's always that of their best friend's heterosexual pursuits.

But still, there are no cutesy pop culture buffers for a Gay _Fe_male Best Friend. So whenever two girls are involved in a romantic relationship, I think it just feels more wrong than seeing two boys dating.

However, I bring all of this up to say that Santana and Brittany are the exception to this. Watching them together, always holding on whether with locked pinkies or locked arms or fingers intertwined through each other's, it just looks and feels so _right_. They are truly In Love.

Plus, it helps matters that Brittany has been openly bisexual for so long that seeing her with a girl isn't even weird anymore, and Santana is one of those 'don't mess with me unless you want to get your ass whooped by my fierce insults _and_ my fierce fists' type of tough-girls who even the carnivorous jock-brains don't dare mess with.

It's so easy for them, just like it's so easy for Kurt&Blaine, and again I am rattled by a wave of envy so strong that there is a taste, bitter and acrid, filling my mouth and rotting me all through my insides.

Quickly, I push these negative feelings towards the two couples aside, especially since Brittany and Santana are two of my closest friends. I used to be on the Cheerios squad with them before I resigned, and I know personally how sweet-natured Brittany is and how Santana actually has a warm, fuzzy core buried way down beneath the layers of razor-sharp sarcasm she uses as a shield to protect herself from the judging eyes of this cruel world.

Finally, there's Mr. Schuester, entering the room with his signature brown leather bag, a cross between a briefcase and a glorified man-purse. He reminds me of a Shar Pei dog with his creased-yet-youthful face, but he has a smile that is never short of ecstatic (except when he's frustrated with the particularly unruly or obnoxiously bossy members of our group – _cough_SantanaorRachel_cough_), and his dark brown eyes harbor a constant twinkle of adventure-seeking.

Sometimes Mr. Schue really gets on my last nerve, like when he comes off as hypocritical, self-righteous, or just _way_ too enthusiastic about lamer-than-lame things like 70's show tunes.

And then there are other times, when he overflows with warmth and this love for teaching us music and interacting with a variety of unique "kids" like us, that make me feel a genuine affection for the man (but if you ever repeat that last part to anyone, you're going to seriously regret it, okay?).

"Hey, guys!" Mr. Schue swings his briefcase-slash-man-purse onto the bench of the gleaming black Grand Piano at the front of the room before turning to give us his attention. He claps his hands together and grins from each to ear, the folds along his forehead prominent, yet somehow still handsome. "How was your weekend?"

"Great, thanks!"

"Mine was fun and relaxing."

"Not long enough."

"When are weekends _ever_ long enough?"

"I found out I have a gnarly ingrown toenail." Puck waits a beat before adding with the kind of boyish excitement only he can possess, "It was _awesome!_" Some groan at this, while others laugh; I settle for something in between.

Mr. Schuester nods at the comments, his smile not even faltering at Puck's gross little anecdote. I suppose he's used to it by now. Hell, we're _all_ used to Puck's gross tales of body parts and bodily functions.

"I'm glad to hear that most of you had a very nice weekend," he says. "I'm sure you all spent time enjoying what you guys like to do in your spare time. That's what the weekend is for: 'me time' for each and every one of us. Emma and I spent the weekend lying on the couch, taking turns picking out which movie to watch. We read old mystery novels out loud to each other, and we had our own ice cream sundae bar right in our kitchen."

That's kind of cute and all, but seriously, Mr. Schue tells us _wayyy_ too much information about his love life. It makes most of us feel kind of uncomfortable, to be honest.

"_Awww_," Tina coos.

"Boh-_riiing_." Artie flashes a thumbs-down and fakes a yawn.

"Mr. Schuester, how many times do I have to point out for the sake of the Glee Club that we do _not_ want to hear the nitty-gritty details of your personal life?" Santana asks. Several of us nod in agreement. "Especially when the details _aren't_ nitty-gritty, 'cause then we all just feel bad for you. No offense, of course; you know me, just keepin' it realsies."

Mr. Schuester rolls his eyes, his smile slipping off his face, but he doesn't retaliate with a comeback. Rather, he takes a deep breath and says, "I'm telling you this because it has to do with the assignment for this week. Which is…" He spins to face the whiteboard, seizes a blue marker from its tray, and then scribbles 'HAPPINESS' across the surface of the board, his wrist flourishing with each loop and line of a letter.

When he's finished writing the assignment, he caps the marker and whips back around to face us again, smile back on his face, in his eyes. He is the human embodiment of the word he's just written.

"Happiness is different to each and every one of us," he says. "What makes me happy may make you bored, or aggravated, or even sad. That's why I want you guys to pair up in twos and perform a song that you and your partner agree really shows what happiness is all about. I would have this be an individual assignment, but we haven't done duets in a while, and I really want to see how you can collaborate on this!"

Gently, Sam squeezes my shoulder; I glance up at him, see that he's grinning down at me in a way that clearly means he's excited about being my partner on this assignment. I grin back, also glad about us being duet partners for the umpteenth time, because Sam is a very easygoing counterpart and our voices harmonize beautifully together.

Rachel's arm shoots up in the air the second Mr. Schue's done talking.

"Yes, Rachel?" he asks warily. I don't blame him, considering when he's called on her in the past, she's often used the opportunity to launch into a spiel about why this assignment should be all about _her_ and _her_ solos, or she's flat-out criticized his teaching styles and told him what he should be doing instead. Which, of course, revolves around giving her most, if not all, of the spotlight.

But I could never have prepared for what _really_ comes out of Rachel's mouth. No, it's not a tangent about how awesome she thinks she is. Nor is it a barrage of insults disguised as oh-so-helpful advice.

No, it's something much, _much_ worse than any of those things.

She says in her loud, clear voice: "I would like to be partners with Quinn."

My jaw drops. WHAT? _NOOOOOOO!_

"Sam and I are partners," I say quickly, sitting up in my seat so fast that I accidentally knock the boy in question's arm off my shoulder. "Sorry, Rachel, but I guess you'll just have to be with Finn again. Or Mercedes. Or anyone else." I'm babbling, rushing out each syllable with panic; I clamp my mouth shut before I can draw any more attention to myself.

Rachel stands up and turns around to face me. "We haven't had a duet together since last year," she says in her determined debate voice. "Our tonal structures flow very well together, creating an interesting and unique combination that no one else in our group has. I belt out the high notes while you sing softer but just as powerful notes, and the end result is always fascinating and aurally diverse."

She twists her neck and half her upper torso towards our instructor, her arched brow expectant. "Right, Mr. Schuester?"

"Right, Rachel." He nods at her before flicking his eyes to me, and it's funny how the look he sends me is borderline apologetic. "Would you mind, Quinn? I do think the duets you two have done together in the past have come out nothing short of phenomenal."

But I'm no Rachel Berry: I can't be swayed by compliments and ass-kissery.

"I don't know," I hedge, pretending to think it over. "Sam and I already agreed to be together on this one…." I give a helpless shrug.

Then Sam, oblivious but well-meaning Sam, has to say, "Nah, it's cool. You can partner with Rachel. Maybe it'll shake things up a bit."

Rachel's beam is so accomplished and self-satisfied that I want to slap it right off her. Throwing her already perfectly straight shoulders back further, she settles into her chair.

I want to kick that chair out from under her and send her sprawling right on her ass, you know, since that's _exactly_ what she just did to me!

_URGH!_

I sulk down in my seat, arms folded tightly across my chest and eyes narrowed into thin slits. Sam notices this, realizes that him letting me duet with Rachel was actually a disservice rather than a favor, but I don't even bother putting on my Understanding Girlfriend face when he reaches a hand to my shoulder; rather, I scoot my chair away from him.

Fate keeps punishing me, so now I need to punish someone in return. And Sam is the clear choice right now.

I don't know what I did in a past life to deserve the obnoxious advances of Rachel Berry, but whatever it was, it must have been pretty damn bad.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

"I told you I was going to make it impossible for you to dislike me!" Rachel says smugly, falling into step beside me as I march out of the choir room the second rehearsal ends.

"Yeah, well, you're seriously failing with your mission so far." I bark a bitter laugh. "You forcing me into being your partner by using your bossy, controlling ways? That's kind of the _opposite_ of what would make me like you."

I stop walking, turn to face her. I wish I hadn't; it's obvious I've hurt her feelings. It's really odd to see Rachel Berry frowning like that. Odd in that way when you see dogs standing up on their hind legs and trying to dance, or when you run into a teacher shopping at the same clothes store as you – it shouldn't be happening, yet somehow, it is.

Then, suddenly, her frown has transformed back into her trademark sunny smile. "This will be good for us; you'll see. Honestly, Quinn, our voices really do harmonize so well together. It's a shame that we don't utilize our differing pitches more often."

I decide to throw her a bone. There's no way this assignment is going to be bearable if I don't have at least a _little_ bit of an accommodating attitude.

"Okay, fine," I huff. "When should we get together to practice?"

"We can go to the Lima Bean right now and brainstorm song selections over coffee," she suggests. "Then tomorrow, we can go to one of our houses and rehearse. We'll need to be ready by Friday; we're going to blow everybody else's performances out of the water!" There's a manic gleam of competition in her eyes; she must take in how I raise my eyebrows at her, for she hastily adds, "But of course, I hope everyone else does well, too. We're just going to be _better._"

"All right," I say. "The Lima Bean sounds good; I could use a latte."

She smirks triumphantly.

Sam and Finn walk up to us.

"Hey," Sam says hesitantly, tilting his head to the side. His eyes widen just a little bit.

Wow, he really does remind me so much of a puppy when he does that.

"Are you mad at me?" he asks.

"No," I say. "Why would I be mad at you?" But after four months of dating, Sam can read my body signals and tonal inflections well enough to know that what I'm _really_ saying is, 'We'll discuss this matter later. In private.'

"Okay," he sighs.

Rachel looks back and forth from my boyfriend and me, her expression curious, but she has enough sense not to question our exchange out loud.

"I can't believe I got paired with Mercedes," Finn says, clueless to the tension mounting around him (as always). "I've never had a duet with her before. She kind of scares me."

"Finn!" I reprimand. "Mercedes is nice; why would she scare you?"

"She always calls me 'white boy,' and she doesn't do a very good job of hiding her laughter at me when I have a dance solo," he explains.

"You'll get along with her," says Rachel matter-of-factly. "You're kind, and you're perceptive of what it takes to make a tough situation work. That's part of why I love you so much." She leans on her tiptoes and pecks a kiss on his mouth.

As she's drawing away, Finn wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her back in. They're lips meet again, deeper this time; I look away.

_Ugh._ I feel sick. Seriously, how gross!

I know they've finally stopped macking on each other when Rachel says, "Quinn and I are going to head over to Lima Bean. I'll call you later, okay?"

I don't bother to contain my upper lip as it twists in disgust when I watch Rachel give him one last kiss. Well, thankfully it's not as shameless and is just on the cheek this time, but still. There are people watching; me included, and I don't want to lose my appetite, thank you very much.

"Why don't Sam and I join you lovely ladies and make it a double date?" Finn suggests. His boyish, lopsided grin passes from Rachel, to me, to Sam, and back to Rachel again.

I'm surprised when she says adamantly, "No, sorry, but it's a special girls' outing. No boys allowed. Especially because you're our competition."

I'm also surprised by how her saying all of this actually makes me feel kind of…happy…and sweetly relieved. _Weird._

"Text me later, Quinn." Sam's hand slips alongside my face; he tries to kiss me good-bye, but I jerk away from him. I'm still pissed that he didn't fight to keep me as his duet partner.

I try to ignore the way his eyebrows furrow over sad eyes. "I'm still grounded from my phone, remember?" I say. "But I'll, uh, ask my parents if I can call you on the home phone or something for a few minutes. So we can talk." I shoot him a pointed look before grabbing the upper part of Rachel's arm and tugging her along with me, down the hall and towards the student parking lot.

Her bicep is not filled out, but it is lean, corded by muscle that has been taken care of with frequent exercises. Upon realizing that I noticed this detail about her, I drop my hand back to my side.

But as soon as I let go, I kind of miss holding onto her.

You know, 'cause that way _I _finally get to be the bossy one who drags _her_ sorry ass around.

* * *

><p>"<em>Ahhhh!<em>" This goofy grin, wide and close-lipped, spreads up Rachel's baby apple cheeks. She's just finished taking her first sip of her drink.

We're sitting at a table for two in the middle of Lima Bean. I've only been here a few times before; the atmosphere is relaxed and easygoing, the food is quality, and the drinks are delicious. I really should come here more often.

"Good?" I ask, quirking an eyebrow.

"_Wonderful,_" she corrects.

"What did you get again?"

"A white chocolate soy latte with a twist of honey, of course, for honey replenishes the vocal chords. And you got a…?"

"A, uh, skinny mocha latte. No whip. Boring, I know, but what can I say? If I try something and like it, I tend to stick with it and not branch out into more…_elaborate_ choices."

She laughs, and the sound is dainty bells, or wind chimes tinkling on a breezy summer afternoon. "Yes, I certainly am 'elaborate,' in every facet of my life, apparently. Even drink orders."

I smirk and hold up my hot beverage. "To coffee, and all of the hidden symbolic meanings it has!"

"To coffee!" she echoes.

We clink cups, and I can't help but giggle.

We drink for a little bit in a silence that is surprisingly comfortable. I figure that if I have to work on this assignment with her, I might as well play nice. For now. As soon as it's over, I can go back to not even giving her the time of day.

She pulls out a mini-notebook with a sparkly baby-blue cover from her purse. A fuzzy magenta pen with a fluffy puff at the end is slipped into the spine of her notebook.

She pulls out the pen, starts flipping to a clean page, and I catch sight of her manicure. A bright, ruby red color, some nails slightly chipped. It goes well with her lipstick, which is somehow unaffected despite her coffee slurpage.

I watch as she begins scribbling in her notebook, pen flying across page; she wears her Rachel in Deep Thought Face – all scrunched eyebrows and pouted lower lip. Pure concentration, determination, that strive for her to succeed, succeed, succeed.

Curiosity gets the best of me. "What are you doing?"

She holds up a rigid forefinger, not breaking eye-contact with her journal, continuing to write for a few more seconds before _finally_ setting the pen down on the tabletop with a _smack_ of satisfaction.

"Done!" she says.

"With what?"

"With jotting down my ideas for our duet. This is of course a brainstorming session, so I would love to hear your input, but I needed to record my ideas before I forgot any of them."

I nod. "I like your notebook and pen; very…_peppy_ colors."

She beams. "Thank you! I made sure to get a blue notebook, because the color is said to induce creativity. And this pen is fun because it's all furry and this fuzzy bit at the end is fun to tickle against my nose." She lowers her voice and giggles at that, as if she's just let me in on a scandalous secret.

I smirk in amusement; her childlike enthusiasm is…uncanny? No... Endearing, maybe? Yeah, that's the word.

"That's clever," I say, meaning it, "You picking your journal's color for that reason, I mean. I have one at home with a basket of kittens on the front." I feel kind of stupid throwing that out there, but whatever, it's just Rachel we're talking about here. Who cares what her opinion of me is?

"Well, you can't ever go wrong with kittens," she says, completely serious.

"Nope," I agree, "you certainly cannot."

I tuck a stray lock of my shoulder-length blonde hair behind my ear. "So, what ideas do you have?"

"Okay!" She bubbles up, instantly all business. "The project is 'happiness,' right? So, here are the songs that inspire that emotional concept in me. Granted, all music in general makes me happy – well, besides rap music, which I personally find to be an oxymoron; oh, and most country music – anyway, _most_ music makes me happy, but these are the ones that I really think embody 'happiness.'"

She clears her throat importantly before reading from her list. "'How Lucky Can You Get' by the perfect Ms. Barbra; 'Tomorrow' from _Annie_; 'Popular' from _Wicked_; 'So Much Better' from _Legally Blonde: The Musi_ – "

"Rachel!"

Her eyes snap up from her list. "Yes?" Irritation bristles her tone. "I wasn't finished."

"No show tunes," I say, "…please. If the rest of your song selections are _not_ from musicals, then, by all means, proceed. But if they are all from musicals, then I'm going to do you a favor and let you save your breath."

"Not _all_ of them are Broadway related," she says, with great indignity.

"Like?"

"Like…" She scans her list before looking back up at me. "Like 'Feeling Good' by Michael Bublé. I have that on here."

"And that's the only non-Broadway-musical song out of, how many did you put? A dozen?"

Rachel lifts her eyebrows and cocks her head. The look is challenging, defensive. "All right, then what do _you_ have in mind, _hmmm?_" Feisty Berry, coming out to play.

"Well," I hedge, "there is one song I always turn to when I'm upset."

"What is it?" Her agitated expression melts into curiosity.

I suddenly feel kind of self-conscious. Things that really make you genuinely happy are sacred, you know? I don't want to share this part of me with her and then have her laugh or dismiss me as being somehow wrong in my opinion or whatever. Then again, I _did_ just interrupt _her_ list, but she knows how I feel about too many show tunes….

I take a sip of my drink before answering. "'Man! I Feel Like a Woman' by Shania Twain."

She nods, slowly, truly thinking it over. Finally, she says, "Actually, I like that song. It's upbeat and empowering and definitely radiates a certain simplistic happiness. But then again, the most joyous things in life are often the most commonplace, right?" She smiles at her own deductions, proud of herself, no doubt.

"Good job," she says to me, doling out a final nod, sealing it in.

_Yeah, as if I need your approval,_ I think, but there's this stupid, tiny smile gracing my lips at how satisfied she looks with me.

"You know…" I say, an idea beginning to bloom. "Since we're partners in this, why not combine my happy song with one of yours? I don't know…maybe, like, 'Feeling Good'? Throw some Bublé into the mix?"

Rachel's eyes widen, brighten; she somehow sits up even straighter in her chair. "Oh my gosh! That's a _great_ idea, Quinn! I think a mash-up of those songs would be fun and quirky, and certainly happy."

She holds up her hand for a high-five and cheers, "Up top, girlfriend!"

I burst into laughter. "OhmyGod, okay, I'll high-five you; just promise never to say that phrase again, especially so unironically. And in public!"

She chuckles as we slap palms. "Fine. From now on when I use apparently outdated slang in your presence, I will only do so when the two of us are someplace private."

"Somehow, I think that's going to be more of a challenge for you than you realize," I tease, "considering about half of your vocabulary is entirely made up of 'outdated slang.'"

"Well, it's a good thing I have you to show me the ropes on the proper lingo of today's youth," she jokes, eyes doubled in size with mock-earnestness. A little smile curves at her mouth.

My heart flutters in the weirdest way; I look down at my latte. "Yeah. Good thing for that." I flick my gaze back up at her and flash a smirk. "Especially considering 'lingo' is one of the words not to be used in modern times by anyone under the age of forty."

She giggles. "I'll keep that in mind."

"And what are you two lovely ladies doing here?"

We snap our heads to my left and her right, catching sight of the voice that has just spoken to us.

It's Blaine. And he's with Kurt.

The two well-dressed, attractive boys carry tall orders of coffee in their shiny, clear-manicured fingers. Blaine wears an expression of friendliness, but Kurt's face is a cross between suspicion and curiosity. … Suspicion and curiosity that is directed towards _me_, as if searching for my ulterior motives for hanging out with his best friend.

"Kurt! Blaine!" Rachel exclaims, jumping up and throwing her arms around first the former, and then the latter boy. "What are you guys doing here?"

"Are you kidding?" Kurt laughs. "We practically _live_ here. The barista has our orders memorized and everything."

"We're regulars!" Blaine says proudly, as if this title is as prestigious as being a member of the royal court.

"And, as my boyfriend asked, what are _you two_ doing here?" Kurt gives Rachel this wide-eyed looked, cocking his head none-too-subtly at me, as if specifically asking why in the world she would voluntarily choose to hang out with me after school.

"We're working on our assignment for Glee Club," she explains, sitting back down in her chair. She's either oblivious to Kurt's rude disbelief toward us being together, or she chooses to ignore it. Either way, I'm grateful.

"Ooh, what did you decide on?" Blaine asks, flashing his inquisitive smile first at Rachel and then at me.

Rachel snaps her journal closed and gives him a raised-eyebrow, 'you're crazy' type of look. "I can't tell you that; it's classified information."

I awkwardly sip from my drink, unsure of what to say. Unsure of how to jump into this conversation, or if I even want to.

Blaine turns to me, offers a playfully conspiring grin. "Come on, Quinn; _you'll_ at least give us a hint, right?"

Damn it; why does he have to be so…_charming?_ This is so lame to say, but I find myself melting a little bit as he widens his amber-colored eyes at me and exposes those perfect teeth of his. It feels sort of…flattering, I guess…for him to be specifically reaching out to me despite Kurt's utter disbelief towards my presence.

So I find myself saying, "We're doing a mash-up."

"Quinn!" Rachel shrieks, slamming a hand down on her closed journal. Her eyes practically pop out of her face in accusation.

"Sorry." I try not to laugh at how dramatic she is. I turn back to Blaine. "But that is all the hint I can give you, or else I fear my partner may have a heart attack, or club me to death with her journal."

Blaine chuckles. "Okay, gotcha."

Kurt slips a territorial hand around Blaine's elbow and ignores me, looking only between his boyfriend and Rachel, as he says, "Let's take a seat, Blaine. My boots are not made for walking or standing; they are made for fashion, and sometimes, fashion hurts like hell."

Blaine chuckles again, the sound loaded with so much more warmth and affection and _love_ this time, and he flutters his fingers in a little wave at me and Rachel. Then Kurt&Blaine prance off to sit down at what I assume is their "regular table."

"Please, for the sake of all that is show business, do _not_ divulge any more highly classified information to our competitors," Rachel scolds me.

"Whatever," I roll my eyes. But I have to admit…I kind of like how she's so 'us against them;' it makes me feel, like, kind of…_special_ or something. Which is truly pathetic to admit, but it's not like you're going to tell anyone, so who cares.

"Would you like to practice at my house or yours tomorrow?" she inquires.

I mull over my options. Neither one sounds all that great. Well…except…I guess it would be kind of, you know, _interesting_ to see where Rachel lives. What her house is like. How her family is – especially those _two_ dads or hers (yeah, you heard me correctly).

"Your house," I say.

"Then we can go to _your_ house on Wednesday. We'll have about an hour and a half before the Open House at school to practice."

"Why do we have to go to my place? Why can't we use yours again?"

"Because I am _very_ curious to see what kind of castle Princess Quinn lives in," Rachel says with this happy, teasing smile. And I can't help but smile back.

"Okay, so, should we exchange phone numbers, in case we need to get a hold of each other?" I ask. "You know, for the assignment," I make sure to tag on, not wanting her to get any ideas.

"I already have your number."

My eyebrows skyrocket in alarm and surprise at this, like '_staaalkeeerrr!_'

"I have all of our fellow Glee Club members numbers stored in my cell," she explains. "Being co-captain with Finn and all, it would be irresponsible of me not to have contact references for everyone."

"Oh…" I say, feeling lame. That actually makes perfect sense. "…Right."

And now I feel weirdly embarrassed, like it's rude for me not to already have her number, too.

But I hand her my phone and she adds her information for me without seeming offended or hurt at all; nothing but her typical peppiness.

When I take my phone back and read over how she entered her number, I surprise myself by softly smiling over the way she entered her name. It _should_ annoy me, make me roll my eyes and audibly insult her cheesiness.

But it's just so…her.

She's entered her cell phone _and_ home phone number, and she has stored her name as: 'THE Rachel Berry*' … yes, with an honest-to-God _star_ at the end of her name. It's just so on-the-nose and maybe just a little bit adorable of her.

Still, she's so full of it, you know? _The poor girl really does try so hard,_ I tell myself.

"I'll text you later and let you know if my parents give the okay to me coming over after school tomorrow," I say as we stand up from our table and start gathering our purses and now-empty cups.

I never in a million years thought I would tell Rachel that I'd be texting her later, let alone that I'd be voluntarily going to _her house_.

"I thought you said you were grounded from your phone?"

"No…."

"That's what you told Sam." She cocks her head, arches an eyebrow: Detective Berry mode.

"Well, I lied to him," I say simply. I turn away from her, about to head for the door, making it clear that this conversation about my boyfriend and me is over before it can even begin.

But, of course, she doesn't take the (_ob-vious_) hint.

"Why would you do that?" she asks, tone so abashed in its curiosity that irritation flares beneath my skin.

"And why are _you_ so damn nosy?" I demand, whirling on her. "What, don't you ever lie to Finn?"

"No," she says, folding her arms over her chest and lifting her chin. "I don't. Finn and I tell each other everything; that's what you do when you're in a serious relationship with somebody, Quinn."

I bristle. "As if _I_ need relationship advice from _you_." Who does she think she is? Just when I'm beginning to not totally hate this girl, she does something _completely_ obnoxiously self-righteous, and I just dislike her even _more_ than before.

Rachel draws back, as if I've just slapped her across the face. "I'm only trying to help."

"_Why?_" I hiss, the word practically a plea.

"Because that's what friends do, Quinn," she says, her voice almost a whisper. Everything about her in this moment is so sincere: her words, her widened eyes, the tiny tug of a frown at her mouth.

"And as much as you try to push me away, I _am_ your friend." Some of her feistiness seeps back into her demeanor. "Whether you like it or not." She walks past me, head held high, shoulders back in a posture so perfect that a prima ballerina would weep with envy.

And all I can do is stare after her, my arms crossed tightly over my pounding chest, my face twisted into a strange expression.

She has left me speechless, for the millionth time in the past few days. I feel something almost like guilt, weighing down inside of me.

Rachel Berry says she's my friend.

No matter how hard I try to push her away.

And the trouble is, I don't know if this is the worst thing I've ever heard…

…or the best.


	5. Chapter 5

A special thanks to my good friend **faberrynerd** for her unyielding and incredibly sweet support and encouragement. I am so glad that you are enjoying my story so much, girlie, and I thank you for always leaving me feedback. At least I know that _one_ person is getting something out of this story! XD

This chapter was originally part of the one after, but the next chapter is so long that in order to not overwhelm you guys, I decided to split them up. This means that I plan on posting the second, much longer half later tonight. I hope you enjoy, and though it feels futile to even ask this even more, I would love to hear your feedback. Thanks. :)

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><p><strong>CHAPTER FIVE<strong>

"_Oohhh, who's a good giiirrrrl? Yeeeesss, you're a good giirrlll! Yes you are, Buttercup! Yes you arrree!_"

I don't know what it is about adorable doggies that makes me transform into Uber Loony Psycho Girl. You know what I'm talking about? That overly caffeinated, gruff baby voice that we all inevitably fall victim to when we're playing with our excitable pets?

Buttercup is my perfect golden retriever puppy. Well, I say puppy, but she's really eight years old. But she stills _acts_ like a child dog, with her playful nature and bounty of energy.

I flop down onto my bed; she jumps up beside me with a graceful springing of butterscotch-colored legs. She cuddles into my side and settles down, knowing that Mommy being on the bed means that she can only join me if she behaves and is very calm.

Buttercup is seriously awesome. I tell her all of my secrets (yes, including…_that_ one), and she never judges me. She continues loving me, offering me a paw on my knee or a lick to my face to demonstrate that she will always be there for me.

I scratch behind her ears; she puffs out a contented doggy sigh from her black nostrils.

As I settle back into the pillows of my bed, I stare down at the cell phone in my lap.

'20 NEW TEXT MESSAGES' blinks up at me, font bolded as if in accusation.

Finally, I suck in a breath, gather my courage, and begin to read through the messages.

Four are from Santana.

Two from Brittany.

One from Puck.

And a whopping _thirteen_ texts are from Sam!

Santana's texts are, two from Saturday night (one asking me "wazzup?" and the other one asking why notorious text addict Quinn Fabray was not replying to her) and two from Sunday, one suggesting that me, her, and Brittany get mani-pedis after school today, and the other one sent a few hours after that stating that my disappearing act is seriously annoying her and is overly dramatic.

Okay, so that explains why she and Brittany basically ignored me today at Glee Club; Santana thinks that _I've_ been ignoring _her_. I'll have to call her in a minute to work things out.

Brittany sent one text yesterday, asking why I wasn't answering Santana and wondering if I were okay. Her other message was from today, and it says, "Cabbage soup. tomatoes. ask, mom 4 morr tampuns" (she accidentally texts me her grocery list reminders more often than you'd think).

Puck's is from today, sent about four hours ago, right after Glee.

It reads: **sux that u got stuck with berry. im happy to provide a muzzle for her if u need 1. Maybe a hannibal lecter face cage?**

I can't help but smirk in amusement at his joke. I reply: **Haha! Tell me about it. :-/ Thanks, but I'm determined to get through being her partner withOUT losing my sanity. Have fun partnering with my Sammy-Poo! *is jealous***

And now I have to read through the _thirt_-freaking-_teen_ texts from "my Sammy-Poo." _Le sigh_.

The majority are from late Saturday night, after out date. Asking me what was wrong, or wondering why I wasn't answering him.

One from yesterday a few hours after church, simply asking: 'Still grounded?'

And his final message is from today, sent at about thirty minutes ago. It reads: **I know ur still grounded and all, but if u get this, just wanted to say that Im sorry for whatever I did. Wishing u were my duet partner, babe.**

I mass delete all of Sam's texts besides the last one, keeping it as a reminder that I need to call him later tonight.

Now it's time to deal with Santana.

I call her, and she picks up after two rings.

"HBIC speaking," she says, completely non-ironically. "I would ask who this is, but my phone tells me it's Q, but how can that be? I thought she'd decided she was too good for her _super freaking AWESOME_ best friends Santana and Brittany." Her tone is dry, bitter.

"Sorry," I say. "I've been grounded from friends, fun, basically even breathing. You know my parents. I would have _looooved_ to have gone to a spa day with you and Britt. Anything other than what I was _really_ up to today."

Santana makes me wait it out for several seconds. Finally, she says, "I guess it's okay. I mean, you being partnered with Rachel is more than enough cruel and unusual punishment to you from the universe, so it's all whatever."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, you can definitely say that again."

"Nah; too many words to repeat," she says seriously. "So, you down for mani-pedis tomorrow then?"

"Can't; I'm going over to Rachel's."

Santana bursts into disbelieving laughter. "You're _what?_"

"Going over to Rachel's," I repeat, letting the annoyance at her laughter erode sharp edges into my words.

"Seriously?" Now _Santana_ sounds annoyed. "Ugh! Whatevs, Q. Just lemme know when you're actually available to your _real friends_, _comprendé_?"

"San, you and Britt _are_ my real friends, but you know how Rachel is. She really wants our duet to be, like, Grammy-award-worthy perfect. So I have no choice in the working with her."

"Fine," Santana huffs. "I'll let Britt know you bailed."

I sigh at her dramatics. "Bye," I say.

Santana hangs up without saying it back.

When the line disconnects, I see that during the phone call, Puck replied to my text.

Puck:** lol but actly I think u'll have fun. Rach is a cool chick once you get to know her. oh and plz nvr say Sammy-Poo again unless u wanna make me PUKE!**

I reread the part "Rach is a cool chick once you get to know her." I wonder if Puck misspelled 'insufferable know-it-all.'

Speak of the devil, I should let her know about tomorrow.

It takes me an embarrassingly and ridiculously long time to write out the final version of the message I send her. I keep thinking it's too short, too long, too brash, too needy, too _something_.

I eventually make myself decide on: **My parents said I can come over tomorrow. Anything I need to bring?**

A few minutes later, she responds, and my stomach kind of does this weird little flip when her message pops onto my screen.

THE Rachel Berry*: **Hey, Quinn! Oh, goodie; I am thrilled that your parents gave the okay. :) It would be great if you could bring some cowgirl boots and an extra fedora, in case the ones my dads have do not suit your liking. Also, be sure to bring a good attitude and some fresh hot inspiration! Sincerely, Rachel Barbra Berry***

I find myself giggling at her text. Not in a ridiculing way, but because…she's just…she's something else.

I do appreciate that she uses correct grammar and spelling usages even over texts, because I do that, too, and most of my friends give me a hard time for being a "texting snob." Rachel types just as she speaks: articulately, intelligently, and of course, even with that sunny smile.

I wait a minute or two before I respond, not wanting to seem desperate, but just as I am about to select the 'REPLY' option, she texts me again.

THE Rachel Berry*: **Upon reading over my previous textual message, I wanted to make it clear that my dads do not own cowgirl boots AND an extra fedora; they only own fedoras. They are gay, but not THAT gay. Ha, ha! Apologetically Yours, Rachel***

I snort a little; I hadn't looked at it that way until she pointed it out.

I find myself replying instantly, my fingers a bit too eager for my liking.

Me:** I didn't read it that way at first, but that's pretty funny. I don't own any cowgirl boots, but I'll ask my mom. Not sure if I can bring a good attitude though; depends on what kind of snacks you have at your house.**

I debate whether to add an emoticon after that last sentence – like maybe the silly :P face, or, God forbid, a playful ;) – but ultimately decide against it. She hasn't earned my 'hahaha's, 'LOL's, or smiley faces yet.

Like, two seconds after sending that last message, my fingers grow a mind of their own and compose _another_ text to send.

Me: **By the way, you don't need to sign off on your texts as if you're writing a letter. I have your name stored in my phone. I know who you are. It gets redundant. Yours Truly, Quinn Fabray**

Two other seconds later, and...

Me: **See what I mean? Case In Point, Quinn**

"MOOOOOMMM!" I yell downstairs. Buttercup stirs besides me at the sudden volume. "DO YOU HAVE ANY COWGIRL BOOTS THAT ME AND RACHEL CAN BORROW TOMORROW FOR OUR SONG?"

"HONEY, DON'T YELL," she yells back. "YES, I HAVE SOME."

"'KAY, THANKS! AND SORRY FOR YELLING."

"YOU'RE WELCOME, AND IT'S OKAY."

My phone's alert _za-ZING!_s with a new text. And then again right after, with another.

THE Rachel Berry*: **If your mother does not own any cowgirl boots, we can always go buy some cheap ones at the discount store. Before you throw your phone at the wall in repulsion at reading the words 'discount store,' I assure you that the fashions there are just as cute as those in department stores, just at a much cheaper price. Oops! Didn't realize I was still signing off my texts that way. Habit of mine from**

THE Rachel Berry*:** when I first started texting, but I've been trying to stop, as I know it annoys most of those whom I converse with. Thank you for bringing that to my attention. :) The snacks are a surprise; you have to actually show up to get the yummy food. That is your incentive for coming over. Well, that, and more importantly to rehearse for our sure-to-be incredible duet. Also, you'll get to see my room! :D**

My God! The girl wrote a freaking _essay!_ So much that my phone had to actually split it into two separate messages.

But I'm kind of smiling. Especially towards her enthusiasm about something so innocently fun like seeing a friend's (I use that word loosely here) bedroom for the first time. It's something you get excited about in elementary school, not _high school._

Me: **My mom owns some boots after all, but they may not be your size; we'll see. Actually, I like discount stores; I don't turn my nose up at reduced prices. Free is my favorite number. Okay, I guess I'll bring an empty stomach, then. ;)**

I debate with myself for a few moments before adding the winking face. She's being so nice, and I kind of am actually looking forward to tomorrow, so I figure I'll throw the girl a bone.

I finish the text up with: **I'll meet you in the student parking lot right after school. I imagine your room will be like a miniature version of a Broadway theater, complete with a life-size statue of Barbra Streisand. Haha. :)**

I hit 'Send.' And immediately realize how friendly I was being, and how I was even joking around with her. I feel guilty; it's mean of me to be sending her mixed signals. I'm not her friend.

She might be mine, as she claims to be, but I'm not hers.

I _can't_ be hers.

But then again…what would it hurt? Just for this week. Just until we're done with our Glee assignment. Then I can go right back to pretending she's nothing to me, to ignoring her annoying existence.

So that's it; it's settled. I'll play nice and be friends with Rachel for this week. It'll make the project far more bearable this way.

I try to ignore the fact that the idea of me being nice and friendly with Rachel makes me feel…like, really happy. The image of us laughing together and hanging out in her surely pinkified room, working on mashing-up our two favorite songs – it all makes me feel a little warm inside.

This week might be not so bad after all.


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you to everyone who alerted this story, favorited it, reviewed it, or even just read it;it all means so much to me, you don't even know. :) I know I said I would get this part up last night, but I didn't finish it until today. It's preeet-ttyyyy dang long. I debated with myself whether I should split it into two chapters, but I decided against it and am keeping these together. Hopefully it will be fun and interesting enough to keep you captivated the whole way through! :D

As always, please review; I love to hear from you guys! What you like, don't like, hope to see happen, etc. I love being able to communicate with fellow Faberry fans! Anyway, I hope you love the next chapter; it was super fun to write, so hopefully that translates into the story. XD

Oh! And by the way, Rachel's dads are based off of the actors from the pilot episode, not from the two actors who will portray them in the upcoming episode. Just to clear up any possible confusion.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER SIX<strong>

"Ta-_daaaa!_" Rachel sings, throwing open her home's front door with the enthusiasm of a game show host revealing the grand prize. "Welcome to my not-so-humble abode. Please be sure to wipe your feet on the welcome mat before entering."

I look down at the brown mat beneath my feet. It's sort of prickly, and it says 'THE BERRY RESIDENCE' on it in a black font with grapevines swirling all through the letters.

I scuff the bottom of my bright red ballet flats against the mat before following Rachel into her house. She shuts the door and then ducks in front of me, eager eyes probing my reaction to her home.

Rachel's house is _big_; it's two stories and everything. The massive second floor landing even has an expensive-looking Grand piano and several bookcases.

Her home smells _great_; like warm, fresh-from-the-oven bread and an undercurrent of lavender – two scents that shouldn't really go together, but they just do. Wonderfully so, in fact.

From where I'm standing in the short front entrance hall, I can see the opening to a large marble-covered kitchen and an even larger living room with forest green and dark brown furniture and light-gold fancy wallpapering.

"Wow," I finally say, flicking my awed gaze to Rachel. Her face splits into a relieved grin. "Your house is seriously impressive. It looks like Martha Stewart decorated it or something."

Rachel's beam turns prideful. "My dads redesign the entire theme of our house every six months. They are highly skilled interior decorators; that's actually their profession. Our own home's current cycle, as you can probably tell, is classically modern with an abundance of warm, nature-y colors. The only thing that doesn't get remodeled is the kitchen, because my dads love the elegance of the marble so much – as do I – and it would frankly just be too much of a pain to have to get all new sinks and cabinets and another kitchen island and such, so – "

Great balls of fire! This girl could talk an _auctioneer's_ ear off!

I cut into her boastful ramblings. "So your dads are professional interior decorators? That's actually really cool. And it's apparently a pretty lucrative business, huh?"

To her credit, she doesn't get annoyed with me for so blatantly interrupting her. But I think Rachel knows that she – particularly her excessive amount of talking – can be hard to take in large doses (hell, even in _small_ doses, sometimes).

"Yes, they're doing _very_ well!" Rachel says. "Just last month, they finished a six-week-long stint completely reinventing Mayor Lambert's mansion. As an added bonus, the mayor even sent us a lovely fruit basket."

"Cool," I say with a polite nod of recognition and a tight smile.

"Shall I do the grand tour now, or later?" she asks.

"Um, how about now?" Over my shoulder, I reposition both my purse and the laundry bag I brought, stuffed with my mom's cowgirl boots and some of my dad's shirts.

"All righty! Right this way, if you will, Miss Fabray!" And then Rachel morphs into Peppy Tour Guide from Hell: she's like all of the worst, most chipper flight attendants and most relentlessly enthusiastic mall kiosk salesmen put together.

To be honest, Rachel's house is incredible. There's something about it that kind of makes me feel right at home, even though I've only been inside for a handful of minutes.

She shows me the kitchen first, with all the marble touches – countertops, sink, even the floor. The black fridge hosts the various academic awards Rachel has received (straight-A+ report cards, first place spelling bee ribbons, etc.).

"How about those snacks you promised last night?" I prompt, inhaling the amazing smell.

"Food comes later," she says. "The tour is first."

Next, she takes me into the living room, with the fancy yet comfortable-looking furniture, and the flat-screen TV, and, of course, the kajillion-and-one pictures of Rachel, or her dads,…or Rachel _and_ her dads, mounted all over the walls (it's seriously like a freaking _shrine_ to the Berries in here).

She shows me the two half-bathrooms; the laundry room; and the final room of the first floor, which is a well-lit mini-gym.

As Rachel gives me the tour, she overflows with both interesting and pointless information, and I try to keep up the best I can. Finally, she leads me upstairs, and as embarrassing as this is to admit, my stomach does this excited twist that I'm about to see her bedroom.

She grabs my hand and tugs me up the long, white-carpeted staircase. I know I should probably yank away from her grip, but I don't, because hers is warm and dry and, whatever, it's just handholding anyway, no biggie.

We reach the second floor landing. "I didn't know you could play the piano," I say, gesturing toward the gleaming black beauty.

"A little," she says. I am all too aware that her fingers are still wrapped around my hand, squishing my own fingers together into a sort of semi-fist, but I figure it would be rude to jerk away now. "It's mainly for my Daddy. He loves to play, and he's excellent." She beams proudly.

"Your 'daddy?'" I echo. "Um…if you don't mind my asking…I don't mean to be rude…."

"No, go ahead."

"Doesn't it get confusing to have two dads, since then you're calling both of them 'Dad'? Wouldn't they both always answer? How do you make it work?"

"That's not a rude question," she insists. "I'm actually glad you asked, considering if I were in your shoes, I would certainly be confused by the matter, as well. I have two dads, yes, named Hiram and Leroy, and I refer to the former as 'Papa' and the latter as 'Daddy.' Does that make sense?"

"Yeah, actually, it does," I say. "'Papa' and 'Daddy.' _Huh_."

"But, of course, when I'm angry with one of them, I'll refer to him simply as 'Father.'"

I laugh. "I do that with my dad, too."

She beams, pleased we have this in common.

"So, where's your room?" I ask, trying not to sound too interested.

"I'm saving the best for last," she says with a wink.

She shows me the hallway bathroom; it has this really cool nautical theme with framed seashells and light blue wallpaper with tiny red tugboats all over it.

She shows me a brief glimpse into the master bedroom (her parents', obviously) way down the wide hallway; it is very well decorated with a similar earth-toned theme to the living room below. But she tells me it would be rude of her to let me look around too thoroughly at her "dads' private den," so she quickly ushers me off to the first guest bedroom, right across the hall from her parents' room.

Rachel finally drops my hand when she opens the door; a rush of cool air hits my palm at the absence.

The room isn't spacious, but is modestly-sized; it has a Queen-sized bed clothed in a beautiful russet-colored comforter that matches the curtains over the small square window above it. The one dresser – large and antique – is a dark cherry wood and polished so much that a distorted version of my reflection bends back at me. There are ornately-framed prints of blazing orange sunsets on the walls. There's even a closet, albeit not walk-in or anything, and definitely not large enough to even host _a third_ of my wardrobe.

"This room is gorgeous," I tell Rachel, enjoying the grin that practically splits her face in two from result of my praise. "I seriously wouldn't mind my own room looking like this when I get older; you know, just a lot bigger version."

"I'm so glad you like it!" she trills. "It's usually used by my aunt and uncle" – I like how she pronounces 'aunt' as '_ah_nt' (I say it like 'ant') – "when they come into town. But you're more than welcome to sleep in here if you ever want to come over for a sleepover." The way she so enthusiastically and eagerly utters that suggestion makes my hard break, just a little, considering me sleeping over is _never_ going to happen.

But, honestly, I don't know if the abrupt pain in my chest is directed at her expense…or at mine.

"Yeah," I force myself to say, gracing her with a tight smile, "sure."

She does this happy little giggle that may or may not be the cutest thing I've ever heard in my life, and then she's bounding out of the room and hurrying down the hallway, right toward the end. There are two doors here – a bare one on the left, and another door directly in front of it, covered with a rhinestone covered pink sign dangling from the knob that reads 'A DIVA LIVES HERE', which is obviously Rachel's.

She opens the left door to show off the second and last guest bedroom.

And if I loved the first, then I _triple-chocolate-cake_-love the second.

And this is going to sound weird, but it's just…so…_me_.

"Whoa!" I can't stop the awed word as it leaves my dropping mouth the moment I take in the little slice of paradise.

It's definitely not as spacious as my own bedroom, but that just makes this one feel even cozier. The walls are painted robin's egg blue, this lovely shade that makes me feel both tranquil and invigorated at the same time. The carpet is cream-colored and so lush that my red shoes sink right into it.

The bed is a double – not really all that grand, but the puffy snow white duvet that looks comfy as a cloud paired with the myriad of red, orange, and yellow throw pillows more than make up for it. And I adore how the sizeable window above the bed is oval-shaped, and how its black silk curtains add an unexpected dash of chicness.

There's a blonde wood desk with a wing-backed, scarlet-cushioned chair behind it; a blonde wood dresser set with a gilt-framed horizontal mirror hung above it.

"You like?" Rachel asks eagerly as I take in the room, running a hand over this, stroking a finger over that.

"I _love_," I correct, unable to keep the admiring – almost adoring, even – grin off my face.

"Then _this_ can be your sleepover room!" she insists, absolutely thrilled with the idea. I have to beam at her while she's clasping her hands and bouncing up and down excitedly like that; maybe because it's sort of how I feel right now, all excited in this room. It all just feels so…_right_. Suuuuuuper weird, I know.

"Show me your room now," I say.

"Right this way, milady!" she giggles, offering me her arm. I shake my head at her antics, but I'm kind of giggling too as I slip my elbow against hers.

She starts _skipping_, I kid you not, the six steps past the doorway and across the hall to her bedroom's door.

"Are you sure you're ready to behold my inner dwelling?" she asks with mock-life-or-death-seriousness in her big brown eyes.

"Bring. It. _On_." I shoot back, making my eyebrows do a crazy wiggle-dance.

Rachel laughs her wind chimes laugh before opening her bedroom door with a flourish and introducing me to her "inner dwelling."

Her room is pretty big – larger than the guest rooms, though not nearly as large as my own.

The walls are painted a clean, eggshell-white, and there are posters for Broadway plays and actual playbills hung all over them. I really like the giant movie poster of _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ she has, with Audrey Hepburn wearing those fabulously huge sunglasses.

But perhaps coolest of all, a promotional mini-poster for Barbra's film _Funny Girl_ is framed on the back of Rachel's bedroom door, signed in silver sharpie: '_Always follow your dreams. Love, Barbra._', with a loopy heart scrawled over the 'A' in 'Always.'

"You have Barbra Streisand's autograph?" I ask, turning to Rachel with awed eyes and a dropped jaw, unable to hide how impressed I am.

Rachel's eyes twinkle. "Yes! Papa bought it for me on eBay a few years ago, for my birthday. It cost quite a pretty penny, but it came with a certificate of authentication and everything, _and_ I know for a fact what Miss Barbra's handwriting looks like due to scrolling through other fans' autographs online, so I know it's real." She points to the framed Certificate of Authentication from eBay on her white desk with the large mirror above it.

The certificate is the only thing to the left of her silver laptop; it makes me sort of inexplicably bitter that the only thing on the right of her laptop is a small red-heart-shaped frame with a picture of her and Finn inside, their heads so close that their cheeks squish together, their eyes bright and smiles huge.

"That's really cool," I admit, referring to her autograph story. Because I would certainly have a much _different_ adjective to use towards the heart-shaped picture.

I walk around, doling out a thorough inspection.

"I really like your room," I decide. Rachel practically explodes with pride.

There's (thankfully) not as much pink as I'd predicted, besides the orange-and-pink floral bedspread and the hot pink pillows. And the dark-pink-and-orange rug. Oh, yeah, and the pinkish-purple lamp next to her desk. It's all just so _Rachel_: feminine and a little bit childish, and _way_ too clean and put-together for a teenager's living space (there's not a stray shirt or dirty sock in sight).

She even has her own elliptical machine (with a piece of pink computer paper posted to a white column in front of it, with GRADUATION, THEN BROADWAY! typed across it, stars all around the words).

But I think my favorite thing about her room is the headboard of her bed.

The headboard is actually a corkboard or something, though I can't really tell what it really looks like since the _entire_ surface is positively _covered_ all over with a rainbow of different thumbtacks pinning photographs of Rachel and her friends.

I don't particularly like the many – _too_ many, in my humble opinion – photos of her and Finn, looking way too happy to be normal, (they _must_ be faking, you know?), but other than that, it's a cute idea for a headboard.

There are so many pictures of her and our fellow Glee Clubbers that many overlap others, as if Rachel is trying to stuff it full with every pleasant memory she has ever had with every pleasant person she has ever met.

Suddenly my eyes fall onto the photo in the top-right corner. None overlap it – there is actually a tiny sliver of a border around it, exposing the beige cork of the board, as if she is being careful not to cover this one up.

And it's of me and her. And this soft smile curves up my lips at the sight, since I'd totally forgotten about that day. And it's actually kind of bittersweet how she's so obviously trying to preserve it because she doesn't know if she'll ever get another memory like this again with me.

I don't even know who took it, but it's of me and Rachel at Mercedes' birthday party last year. We're wearing those goofy party hats with the little fluffy balls on top – you know what I'm talking about – and the strings that hook under your chin. Basically, _nobody_ is immune to looking like a dork wearing those hats. We have our arms around each other's shoulders, our heads tilted toward each other, and Rachel is beaming her show-every-perfect-tooth-and-open-her-eyes-ridiculously-wide crazy beam. My smile is close-lipped, amused, and it's my eyes that show I'm shining with joy.

It's a cute picture.

I kind of want to steal it and take it home.

Rachel comes up beside me, watching my reaction to the photograph. "That's one of my favorites," she says, almost shyly. "Well, that one, and that one, and that one. And that one, too." She flicks a forefinger here and there, to one of just Finn, to one of her and Kurt wearing facial masks and sticking out their tongues, to…she points too quickly, and I can't tell her other choices. "Yeah, those are my favorites."

"This is a great photo of us," I tell her, meeting her eyes and offering a small smile. "We should take pictures together more often." _More pictures specifically taken _only_ this week,_ I want to add, considering I'm only going to be her friend until this song assignment is over. I might as well capture all the memories while I can, right?

"Sure!" Rachel bubbles up. "That would be awesome."

I walk over to her bed and sit on the edge. I drop my purse beside me and the laundry bag of supplies onto the rug. "So, where are your dads? Why aren't they home?"

"Oh, they're up at their office, working," she says, sitting down beside me, leaving about half a foot between us. "They'll be home within the next two hours."

"You don't have any siblings, do you?" I ask, even though I'm 99.9% sure that Rachel is an only child. Didn't Finn even once tell me that she wrote a song about it, or something?

"Yes, I am. I'll admit, sometimes it can be just a smidge lonely. My parents are hopeless romantics, so sometimes they'll go out of town for the whole weekend, leaving me here alone with this big house. But I know that if I _did_ have a brother or sister – preferably a sister – I would be very jealous. I wouldn't change a thing about my relationship with my dads."

"That close, huh?"

"They're my best friends," she says, no trace of shame.

"That's awesome, seriously. Most teenagers would never admit that in a million years."

"Yes, well, I think it's been proven time and time again that I do not fit in the same mold as 'most teenagers.'" Rachel shrugs, offering this tiny, self-deprecating smile.

"That's a good thing," I say, "believe me. Most of us teenagers are immature and directionless. Not _me_, of course, but…you know…like…yeah." I'm just so articulate, aren't I?

Rachel's smile turns more sincere. "What about you? Any siblings? Close with your parents?"

"I have one sister; she's older, twenty-three. Her name's Frannie. And yep, I'm close to my parents. Daddy's little girl and all that."

"What's your sister like?"

"Blonde, beautiful, and perfect," I say, the bitterness in these words coming out harder than I intended. "Basically, everybody acts like she's God's gift to the world."

Rachel lifts her eyebrows and leans back on her hands, fixing me with a meaningful look. "Sounds like you just described yourself."

"What? No!" I say, but then I realize that, not to sound conceited or anything, but she's sort of right. I gnaw on the inside of my lower lip for a moment. "Well, I'm far from perfect; I can tell you that."

Rachel nods wisely. "We all are, Quinn. That's what makes life interesting."

I scratch the side of my head, even though it doesn't itch. "So, we should really get started on our mash-up."

She sits up, instantly switching into her productive and optimistic mode, this ecstatic smile lighting up her face, her amber eyes. "Yes!" She claps her hands together. "How about we try out the wardrobe first? I believe that will lead us in the direction for how exactly we want to write the mash-up."

"Okay, sure." I pick up the laundry bag and start shifting through it. "There are only three cowgirl boots in here, which still feels like an alarming amount for anyone to own. And I brought at least a dozen of my dad's shirts."

"I'll go into my dads' room and come back with some more options," Rachel says after peeking into the bag and sizing up my inventory. "They might have something that'll match those adorable pink boots in here."

I watch her prance merrily out of the room, like a fairy princess or something. Does she _ever_ run out of energy?

I dump the contents of the laundry bag onto Rachel's bed, and for the first time, I'm actually really excited about working on this assignment and putting together an outfit to wear when we perform it.

Fashion knows how to bring out the best in people.

* * *

><p>It's been about an hour and a half, our time spent putting together the perfect ensemble, and I can't believe how much fun I'm having.<p>

It's amazing how light-hearted, how even _funny_ it can be, when I hang out with Rachel and don't keep telling myself to hate her. I cleared my mind and am determined to make the most of this week, and honestly, I can't remember the last time I laughed this much or this hard with Santana and Brittany.

We're in the private bathroom connected to Rachel's room – the door that I at first thought was her closet, but upon opening it, had found a truly Rachel Berry bathroom world with so much pink (soap, towels, wall color, fluffy pink rug on the white tile) and a line of those fabulous, antique perfume bottles of stained glass, with the nozzles you have to squeeze to make work, all along her sink.

Rachel sits on a – you guessed it – light _pink_ stool in front of the sink, which has one of those Broadway-type vanity mirrors with the big round bulbs illuminating all around it in a circle.

She wore her hair straight today, and right now I'm styling it for her in big, loose curls. "You know," I say, "I used to have hair as long as yours, maybe longer."

In the mirror, I watch as Rachel smiles a little. Her eyes are closed in contentment (she told me that she finds it relaxing when other people play with her hair). "I remember," she says. "I was always so jealous of how long and pretty and silky it was. But, honestly, I like your shorter look better. It's more mature. More chic. More _you_."

She opens her eyes to gauge my reaction; our eyes lock, and a smile that could almost be described as _shy_ lifts up my mouth.

"Thanks," I say, meaning it. "Sometimes I miss my longer hair. You know I cut it because I started getting too lazy to find a new way to style it every morning? Now I can just roll out of bed and brush or it pull it back a little, and it saves a lot of time." I look at the reflection of my own shoulder-length-with-long-side-bangs haircut, soft pale strands framing my face, the bangs gathered to the side with a dark blue dragonfly clip that matches the color of my sweater.

"Really?" Rachel asks with a tiny giggle. "I never would have pegged you as the type to forfeit beauty just to acquire a few extra minutes of sleep in the morning."

"_Forfeit beauty,_ huh?" I smirk, finishing up styling a lock of her hair and then holding up the curling iron like a sword. "I wouldn't say such things while I'm holding hot, poky objects."

Rachel laughs. "No! I didn't mean you're any less beautiful!" she insists, and I have to act like I'm kneeling down only to curl the ends of her hair, and not because I'm using her head to block my reflection in the mirror. To block the way my cheeks are warming bright pink from her compliment.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Miss Berry," I say, biting back this stupid, goofy grin as I roll a large section of her sleek, dark hair around the curling iron.

"Actually, Miss Fabray, if there's one thing I've learned in my eighteen years of life, it's that flattery – along with chocolate – will get you just about anywhere."

And I seriously have to laugh at that, because it's just too true. "Yes!" I exclaim. "Flattery and chocolate! There's nothing else you need in life to succeed."

I stand back up and being working at the top of her head to give it some extra volume. The mirror tells me that she's wearing this close-lipped, satisfied smile, and her eyes are closed again in relaxation. Her eyelashes curl up from her lids, casting a shadow across her chiseled cheekbones, and I find myself wanting a camera to capture the moment. I take a mental picture instead: _Click_.

Suddenly, a man's voice booms up the stairs, "Miss Rachel and Friend, we are _hooooommeee!_"

Rachel's eyelids pop apart, her smile pulling open in a toothy beam. I jerk my glance down to her hair, pretending like I wasn't just creeping on her in the mirror.

"My dads are here!" she says, bouncing up so quickly with excitement that I almost burn her scalp with the curling iron.

"Hey, watch it!" I reprimand lightly. "Unless you want me to scald off your hair."

"Wouldn't want that," she agrees, taking the curling iron from me, turning it off, and finally unplugging it before setting it down on a pale pink towel set beside the sink.

"Come on!" she says, grabbing my hand, and this time her fingers slip right between mine. "You get to meet my dads!"

"Okay!" I laugh, attributing the butterflies in my stomach to be toward meeting the parentals (since adults can be intimidating), and _not_ because our fingers seem to fit so perfectly together.

I let her pull me out of the bathroom, through her room, down the hall, across the second-story landing, and finally, down the stairs, practically having to run to keep up with her.

"Daddy! Papa!" she calls. "Where are you?"

"In the kitchen, honey," one of them calls back.

The next thing I know, Rachel's whipping me into the living room, landing me right at her side. I notice – oh boy, do I notice – that she continues holding my hand, the grip so warm and natural.

One of her dads stands with his back to us, washing his hands in the sink; the other rifles through the fridge, the open door obscuring most of him from view.

"_Daa-aads_," Rachel sings. "Turn _aroouu-nnd._"

They each take a few seconds to finish up their business before turning around to face us. The one at the sink holds a green towel, drying off his hands; the one at the fridge holds a container of mini-tomatoes.

"Hello, Darling," the man with the mini-tomatoes says, setting the food down on the kitchen island before wrapping Rachel in a giant hug. Rachel giggles with delight.

He turns to me and adds, "and Darling's Friend," and promptly wraps me into a bear hug, too. And believe me – when I say bear hug, _I mean_ bear hug: he's at least six-foot-two, a toned and hulking mass of African-American, and his arms practically swallow me whole.

"Um, hello," I squeak out when he pulls away from me.

Rachel's other dad sets down the towel, and it's kind of comical how completely opposite he looks from her other dad. He's a lot scrawnier, and as he approaches us, I can see that he's only an inch or two taller than me. His skin is pale, he sports a distinctly Jewish nose like Rachel, and he wears a pair of rather dorky, intelligent-looking glasses.

The white man plants a quick kiss on Rachel's cheek and ruffles her hair affectionately; it's sweet how her eyes light up at his touch.

He turns to me and offers his hand; Rachel drops her own so I can shake with her dad, and I find myself inwardly cursing her dad for being polite with his introduction.

"I'm Hiram," he says in a kind, soft voice.

"And I'm Leroy," says the black man, his voice positively booming. Like a roll of incoming thunder, washing over the room in its power.

I take Hiram's hand and shake it, offering him my special Quinn Fabray: Parent Pleaser smile. "It's nice to meet you both," I say, dropping Hiram's hand and turning my gaze back and forth to each dad. "Rachel speaks so highly of you. I'm Qui – "

"Oh yes, we know who you are," Leroy chuckles. Seriously, he could be a late night radio DJ or something! Maybe on one of those "_smooooooth jaaaazzz_" stations. "Quinn Fabray. Rachel has told us all about you."

I turn toward Rachel, my eyes widened in alarm; did she tell them how I picked on her, teased her? How I helped push her towards getting a nose job, for crying out loud?

But she's smiling at me all friendly and happy, so those fears quickly fade away.

"Oh, all good things; don't worry," Hiram adds, apparently detecting my alarm. And, okay, maybe my insides melt a little at that, and I smile at Rachel. "She's tried to introduce us to you and your parents after the choir shows many times, but you're always running off right afterward."

"Oh, yeah," I say. "My parents don't really like waiting around in crowds."

"Well, we're excited to eventually meet them," says Leroy.

"Tomorrow," Rachel pipes up. "At the Open House. Quinn can introduce you to them then."

"Sounds perfect," says Hiram.

"So, how's your assignment going so far, girls?" Leroy asks, and to his credit, he sounds genuinely interested, not just that polite fake-curiosity that most parents dole out.

"Great!" Rachel insists. "We've been working on wardrobe; lookie!" She twirls a finger towards the right side of her head, the part I got done curling. I wasn't able to start on the left, since her dads' arrival interrupted the process.

"_Ooh-la-la_," Leroy says, the jokingly feminine trill in which he utters it sounding absolutely ridiculously amidst his deep voice.

"I think the asymmetrical look only works with bobs or up-dos, sweetheart," Hiram teases.

"_Obviously_ it's only half-finished, Papa," Rachel gives a playfully dramatic roll of her eyes. "You guys showed up before Quinn could do the left side."

Leroy steps closer to his daughter to examine my work more thoroughly. "This really is a fine job, Quinn," he says, nodding. "Would you do mine sometime?" He's wearing this completely serious, earnest look as he points to his shaved head.

And something warm and fuzzy passes through my stomach as we all share a genuine, hearty laugh at Leroy's joke. I exchange a giant grin with Rachel, and something that kinda resembles affection for her and her family courses within my heart.

"Quinn and I should get back to working on our assignment," says Rachel, still grinning. "She has to be home by 5:30."

I try to ignore the disappointed dip of my stomach at this reminder, even though my supposed "curfew" was self-inflicted. I wanted to make sure I had an out; who ever could have guessed that I'd so love being _in?_

"You're not staying for dinner?" asks Hiram. "But you have to! Leroy's making his famous fettuccini alfredo."

"It's hard to find meals that are suitable for both my vegan daughter _and_ my strict-Kosher-diet husband, but somehow I manage," Leroy says with a fond chuckle. "Though there are some nights where I make them fend for themselves because I'm just craving a carb-ridden fast food cheeseburger too badly."

I laugh. "You know, fettucini alfredo sounds great. I could, um, call my parents? See if they would mind my staying out a bit later. That is," I add, turning to Rachel, "if you don't mind?"

Rachel pulls a face and waves a hand through the air. "Are you kidding me? Of course I don't mind! We'd love to have you stay for dinner."

"Okay," I say, and this time my stomach dips again, but with an emotion completely different from disappointment. "My stomach and taste buds look forward to it. Oh! Speaking of! Rachel, where's this epic snack you promised me I would be receiving today?" I cross my arms over my chest, quirk an eyebrow, and purse my lips at her, mock-scolding.

"It comes after dinner," she says with a triumphant smirk. "My special dessert."

"Which means Oreos with chocolate pudding," says Hiram.

"Please let it not be anything else," Leroy flicks his eyes to the ceiling and wiggles his prayer-position hands. "Lord knows Baby Girl cannot cook anything to save her life. Except for maybe pourin' a bowl of cereal."

"Hey!" Rachel exclaims. "I resent that! I'm a wonderful cook!"

Hiram's eyebrows lift along with his mouth, his entire face seeming to be one big smirk. "You're among family here, Rach," he says. "Family who will love you and not judge you, despite your penchant for burning anything you try to make, even grilled cheese. You're a Broadway-worthy actress, but you're not fooling anyone when you claim you're a good cook."

I can't help but to dissolve into giggles at this. Rachel can't cook? For some reason, I just kind that pretty adorable. And hilarious. Considering I've always imagined her to be perfect at everything, cooking not being an exception.

"No!" Rachel gasps, clapping a hand over her heart. "Quinn! Not you, too!"

"I'm sorry, Rachel, but honestly, I'm relieved," I say, releasing some leftover giggles. "It's inhuman for you to be so perfect at everything. And since I actually _am_ a good cook, I'm happy to discover that there's something I'm apparently better than you at."

"Do I detect a _challenge?_" Rachel asks, fire in her eyes.

"Of what?" I ask.

"Of who's the better cook!" she says.

"Oh, there _is_ no challenge," I say, casually lifting my fingernails to my lips, blowing on them, and then buffing them against my sweater. "_I'm_ the best cook."

"That's it, Fabray! You're coming over one day after school, and we're going to have a cook-off!"

"I whole-heartedly endorse this matter so long as my stomach gets to play judge," says Leroy, lifting a forefinger. "And so long as Rachel does not cook anything tofu related, because there's no way _anyone_ can make _that_ taste like anything other than an old shoe."

"Fine, Berry," I fix Rachel with my most determined look. "You better bring your A-game, 'cause when it comes to cooking, I don't mess around. I'm going serve your ass to you on a silver platter!" I realize that I've just said a cuss word in front of adults; my face starts to flame. But the heat vanishes when I see her dads' amused grins.

"_Ooh!_ Up top, girlfriend!" Hiram lifts his hand to me for a high-five, and I grin like a crazy woman as I slap his palm.

"Oh my God!" I blurt out. "It's you!"

"_What?_" Hiram asks, eyebrows knitting together as he releases a chortle.

"You're the one who's teaching Rachel all of her outdated slang!"

Leroy's laughs so hard and so loud that I might have jumped just a little. "Damn!" he says. "I like you, girl." He slugs me enthusiastically on the shoulder, and I try not to wince at what is sure to be a small bruise come tomorrow. "I've been trying to get Hiram and Rach to stop saying that for _years_. It's particularly bothersome when Hiram says it to _me._" Leroy flicks an annoyed gaze to Hiram. "Honey, I am not your girlfriend, okay? Does it look like I have pigtails and a skirt?"

Hiram jumps up on his tiptoes and just barely manages to slink his arms around Leroy's neck; the latter has to bend down a bit to help him out.

"You're right; you're not my girlfriend," he says, and the men's eyes lock in such a way that it's like I can _see_ the passionate True Love flowing between them. "You're my husband. _But_, that still doesn't mean I would be adverse to seeing you in a mini-skirt to show off those long, muscular gams of yours."

"Long, muscular, and unsightly _hairy_, you mean," Leroy jokes. They lean in for a quick kiss; I look away, and I surprise myself in the fact that it's not at all because I'm repulsed by two men kissing, but rather because I wish to give them some privacy in their sweet moment.

"_Ewww! Daaa-aaads!_" Rachel whines. "How many times have I told you? No macking in the kitchen!" And I have to laugh when I follow her accusing finger, pointing to a sign posted next to the fridge that says, I kid you not, 'NO MACKING IN THE KITCHEN!', complete with a pair of lips drawn with a slashed-through-circle around it. How did I not notice that before?

"Sorry," they say in unison, pulling apart and chuckling guiltily.

"I mean, for Barbra's sake!" Rachel huffs. "We have _company_ over." She gestures towards me wildly.

"It's okay, Rachel," I say.

"Yeah," says Hiram. "Quinn's not company; she's your friend. Which makes her practically family."

I bite down on my smile and twirl a lock of hair around my finger, unable to look anywhere but at the floor as my cheeks warm with delight.

"Let's go back upstairs," Rachel says to me. "We can come back down when dinner's ready. We still have quite a bit to get done, _and_ you need to call your parents to make sure it's okay that you stay over for dinner."

"Yeah, you're right," I say, following Rachel's lead out of the kitchen.

"You're dads are awesome," I tell her.

"I know," she says smugly. "Thanks. I'm sure you're parents are just as cool. I can't wait to meet them!"

A strange feeling of foreboding crosses over me at her words, scattering a shiver across my arms, down my back.

"Yeah," I gulp down a sudden dryness in my throat. "I can't wait, either."


	7. Chapter 7

Wow, it's been exactly three months since I've last updated this. I could provide you with a plethora of worthy excuses, like school and lack of inspiration for a while and yadda yadda yadda, but I'll spare you. Just know that, to the people who have been waiting for this story to continue, I am genuinely sorry that it has taken so long. :-/ I hope you all still are enjoying this, and I hope this new chapter is well worth the wait. :) Also, to any new readers, I hope you like this, too.

Here's a big hug to anyone who has made it to this far in the story, and a big basket of fresh-baked virtual cookies for anyone who leaves a review. Much love! And onward we voyage... *Spanks rump of trusty steed (wearing a saddle emblazoned with 'Faberry Forever' in gold script) and gallops on into the plot*

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER SEVEN<strong>

"Are you allergic to dogs?"

Rachel adjusts the strap of her pale pink tote bag. "No," she says, "I love dogs! I wish I had one, but the only pet I've ever had was a cat, and she died last year. My dads were too heartbroken to even consider getting another animal anytime soon. But Miss Paws lived a very happy, healthy, long kitty life. I named her Miss Paws because she was all black, but her paws were white."

Girl has an anecdote for _everything_. Ask her about the weather, and if it's misty, she'll tell you a story about her favorite rainy day; or if it's sunny, how she once got sunburned on the beach.

Funny thing is, the day before yesterday, this annoyed the hell out of me. Now, I find myself _almost_ enjoying learning these new things about her, even if some of them are _super_ random.

"Cats are cool," I say. "I'm sorry yours died. But dogs rule the world, and don't you forget it." I shoot her a playful wink.

My fingers start to go around the knob of my front door, but Rachel's hand jumps forward, seizing my wrist.

"Wait!" she exclaims.

I turn to face her, raising my eyebrows. "Rachel, you can debate me on cats versus dogs _after_ we get inside, okay?" I sigh, and tap my foot impatiently.

"No, it's not that," she says softly, gnawing adorably – er, _annoyingly_, I mean – on her lower lip.

"Then what is it?" I ask, feeling my own expression softening, even though I don't tell it to. Her hand is still around my wrist, and I hope to God that she doesn't feel my quickened pulse thrumming beneath her fingertips.

"I'm…nervous," she admits, and I can tell that it's not easy for her to do so. Rachel Berry is the Webster definition of confident, self-assured. She does _not_ get nervous. And if she does, then she sure as hell doesn't say it out loud.

"Really?" My eyebrows knit together. "Why?"

She releases my wrist and starts playing with her hair instead, unable to look me in the eye. "Well… what if your parents don't like me?"

My mouth drops open; my heart squeezes.

Quickly, I recover. "Oh, come on, Rachel!" I scoff, offering her an encouraging smile. "You're _Rachel Berry_; you're like catnip to parents. You're the good, rule-abiding person that every parent wants their child to be friends with."

"Okay," she smiles this teensy-tiny smile, and I know she's still not convinced.

"Seriously," I try again, "it's just my parents. They're, like, totally old. Why would you even care about impressing them in the first place?"

Rachel surprises me with her answer. Surprises me, and makes me feel both wonderful and like crap at the same time.

"Because I know they mean a lot to you, and genetically speaking, you must share a lot of the same personality traits. What if they find me annoying and over-dramatic like you do? I've just appeared to have gained the approval from you for our friendship, and I would hate for parental dislike to have you reverting back to square one with me. Not when things are going so well so far."

I draw my head, physically taken aback. My mouth flounders for a few seconds. Speechless. I'm _never_ speechless.

Does having me as a friend really mean that much to Rachel? But _why?_ Seriously, I'm not that special. Rachel is out-of-this-world talented, born to be nothing but the pinnacle of success. But most importantly, she's a good person. Having her like me so much makes my heart feel warm, but it also makes my muscles feel leaded down with guilt at how I _really_ don't deserve her kindness. I've always been such a bitch to her.

She's looking anywhere _but_ at me, so I step forward and lift her chin up with the tips of my fingers, making her meet my eyes. "Hey," I say firmly. "Look at me." She obliges, because accommodation is second nature to her, and for some reason this only makes me feel even guiltier.

I drop my fingertips from her chin, ignoring the way they suddenly tingle. "You're kind, and smart, and funny, and there is no way you aren't going to charm the pants off of my parents. Which is really rather unfortunate for us, since my dad has a habit of wearing these horrible white boxer shorts with giant red hearts all over them." I make a disgusted face.

Rachel laughs, and it is music to my ears, egging me on.

"You're not annoying," I continue. "Well, okay, sometimes you _really_ are. No offense. But sometimes you aren't. And that's basically how everyone is in the world, right? And as for you being over-dramatic? Rachel, honey, if you change that part of yourself, then I wouldn't even know who you are anymore."

She pushes lightly against my arm, chuckling. I am relieved to see her rolling back her shoulders and getting that can-do look all over her face.

"Can we go inside now?" I ask, making a show of slowly moving my hand to the doorknob as if afraid she'll spring at me again.

She nods. "Yes. I'm ready to face the music!"

I open the door and shove Rachel inside. "Get in there, you goober," I say, shaking my head.

I use my heel the close the door behind me and watch as Rachel takes in my house. She smiles softly, eyes darting here, landing a few seconds longer there. I wonder what she's thinking, how she perceives where I live, and what she thinks it says about me.

My home is pretty big (not as big as hers, though), and the furniture is nice but kind of tacky in comparison to her house's Martha-Stewart-worthy décor. I mean, there's a stuffed deer mounted above our fireplace, for goodness' sake! You can't really get any _less_ tacky than that; nothing says 'height of glamour' like the dead, marble eyes of a buck staring out at you, its antlers shellacked with an embarrassing amount of care.

"_Rrrruuufff! Rrrruuufff!_"

Buttercup comes bounding into the room, paws slipping and sliding all over the recently-mopped hardwood floor of the stairs, before finally regaining some balance and a bit of doggy dignity when she reaches the carpet of the living room floor.

"Come here, baby!" I coo, dropping to my knees and throwing my arms open wide.

But the furry traitor zooms right past me and plows right into _Rachel_, Buttercup's four limbs coming clean off the ground as she literally _knocks Rachel over_, crashing the small brunette flat on her back.

She _"oouunffs_" in a rather unladylike manner, as Buttercup stands atop her chest as if she's new territory my dog has just claimed and is sticking a flag in. Buttercup's tail wags about a hundred miles per second, and her tongue lolls happily from her panting mouth.

"No!" I hiss, running over to Buttercup and pushing her off of the poor trampled girl. "_Bad dog!_ A very, very bad dog!" Buttercup just stares at me, panting rather stupidly, this doggy grin all over her face. Which is _totally_ unfair, because how you can stay mad at something that is so cute?

"Are you okay?" I ask Rachel, fighting back a sudden barrage of giggles. She _does_ look pretty pathetic, all sprawled on her back like that, hands flown upward as if to protect her face from any further attacks.

"Never better," she insists, with the solemn bravery of a soldier back from battle. I shake my head at her, unable to control the next wave of laughter as it pours out of me, and grab her wrists with my hands. In one giant yank, I pull her up to her feet; the momentum sends her forehead colliding with mine, hard enough that there is an audible _crack_ sound.

We both groan, jumping back and massaging at our heads; then we look at each other, and now we're _both_ laughing our asses off.

"What's so funny, girls?"

I whirl around to face my mom, walking out of the kitchen, a pale pink frilly apron tied around her neck. It's totally just for show, since Mom rarely cooks, and when she does, she refrains from wearing aprons because she says they'll wrinkle her clothes. But she always throws one on when my dad or I have company, to preserve the illusion that she is a very doting and organized housewife, when really she either goes shopping all day, or she stays in on the couching watching _Real Housewife_ marathons. That must be why she's so bad at the job, if she's taking pointers from _those_ crazy people.

"Hey, Mom!" I ignore her question and walk over to give her a hug. Rachel follows and surprises me by hugging my mom after I've pulled away from her. Mom gives this surprised "_Oh-ho!_" sound of delight at Rachel's embrace, but I notice that she merely pats her on the back in this gingerly way, as if Rachel might have some cooties that she doesn't want to catch.

"This is Rachel," I point to the brunette as she smoothes down her shirt, probably hoping there are no paw prints marked into its fabric (there aren't, which is a real shame , because it would be totally hilarious if there were). "She's my partner for the Glee Club assignment, remember?"

Mom nods. "Oh…" her gaze travels the length of Rachel, giving her a well-guarded once-over, and I think I actually see a spark of approval within her hazel eyes. "…right. Well, that's _wonderful_, dear. Your father will be here in about two hours, and then we'll go to the Open House together. Rachel, sweetie, are your parents going to pick you up, or do you want us to give you a ride to the school and they can meet you there for Open House?"

"They're going to pick me up in an hour and a half. It's crunch time today for me and Quinn. We have quite a bit to get done if we want to have our routine mastered by Friday."

"And what are you two singing?"

"A mash-up," I say, "between Shania Twain and Michael Bubl_é_."

Mom crinkles her nose. "Sounds…interesting."

"Oh, it will be, Mrs. Fabray," says Rachel with a proud beam. "It's going to be interesting, exciting, and totally worthy of crowning us victorious." She has her crazy Rachel _Must_ Win gleam crackling all through her dark brown eyes, lightening them to amber.

"Yeah, but winning isn't _everything_, right, Rachel?" I say with just enough subtle reprimand in my tone to snap her out of her brief reverie.

"Right," she says, but her nod lacks conviction.

"Come on; I'll show you my room." I grab Rachel's hand, but don't link our fingers, trying to be careful. I want to get away from my mother and the way her expression has slowly but surely been transforming into a look of distaste toward Rachel and her manic energy.

"Oh, goodie!"

When we reach my bedroom, I drop Rachel's hand to open my door.

"Wait!" she says as I begin to turn the knob.

"Not again!" I jokingly groan.

She smiles a close-lipped, ear to ear smile, making her cheeks look kind of chipmunky – but in the best possible way. Then, she closes her eyes, tilts her head back, and lifts her arms up to the ceiling.

"Um, Rachel? Your weirdness is showing."

"_Shhh!_ I'm trying to take it all in. To breathe in this moment."

I scratch the side of my head. "What moment?"

"I, Rachel Berry, high-school-hierarchy-proclaimed 'perma-loser,' is about to step foot into Queen of McKinley Quinn Fabray's personal fortress. Do you hear that? That's the sound of the status quo exploding. Do you feel that? It's the Winds of Life shifting, changing beneath our feet, through our sou –"

"Oh my God!" I laugh. "You are _soooo_ weird, Berry!"

She drops her ridiculous pose and looks at me, and then she's laughing too. "I know."

My laughter intensifies at this. "What am I going to do with you?" I shake my head back and forth, throw open my door, and push her inside of my room. A wild impulse makes me spank her rump to send her further forward, and I think I may die of embarrassment at the action, but my panic is fully assuaged when it only makes Rachel giggle harder.

I close the door to my room behind me and step up beside the tiny brunette, her widened eyes darting here, there, everywhere.

"What do you see?" I am suddenly nervous, wondering of the transparencies my room has revealed. Wondering if my secrets hang from the walls, peeling into view like old wallpaper. Wondering if they beckon from beneath my bed, like rabid dust bunnies, their furry talons ready to attack.

"I love it," she says, and I can tell she's being honest. She walks around, inspecting everything close up. Then, she adds, "But it's missing something."

"What?"

"A picture of me."

If this conversation had unfolded just a few days ago, I would have snorted, rolled my eyes, and insisted that she was conceited. But now, a strange sense of guiltiness twists in my stomach, and I find myself fidgeting with the hemline of my blouse.

Because, seriously, I have a picture of me and everyone _but_ Rachel, practically.

"But never you fear!" she exclaims, whirling around to face me, a determined grin upon her face. I immediately drop my fingers away from my shirt and roll my shoulders back. "I can fix that in a jiffy."

_Jiffy._ God. How can you hate someone who is innocent and naïve enough to earnestly use words like 'jiffy?'

Rachel marches over to my oval mirror over the bureau and digs through her purse. She pulls out her wallet, flips it open, pulls something from one of the pockets, and then wedges it into place between the mirror's frame and glass.

She steps back, hands planted on her hips as she surveys her handiwork.

I look at what she's just put there, and I shake my head and maybe-sort-of smile at her persistence. It's a small, wallet-sized photograph of her, the one we had taken back in the fall to go in the yearbooks. Her bangs were freshly cut, a bit too short back then; her captured smile is cheesier and bigger than any smile in the world; the golden-yellow dress she wore is surely self-symbolic of her 'impending stardom.'

And you know what?

I think out of the dozens and dozens of pictures in my room, this one has already become my new favorite.

* * *

><p>For the next approximately hour-and-a-half, we work tirelessly on our song-and-dance routine. Rachel is all business the entire time, but we do have a few light-hearted moments, a few inside jokes developing (wow, I never in my entire life thought I would <em>ever<em> have inside jokes with _Rachel Berry_ of all people).

I'm confident that we have the routine down pat, but Rachel still insists that we need to meet at her house tomorrow to rehearse one last time, this time in our costumes. We're presenting on Friday, so tomorrow is our last chance to perfect our performance and work out any hidden kinks.

Besides, she reminded me, pacing back and forth like a restless drill sergeant, Finn and Mercedes went today, and their mash-up was actually very enjoyable and cute, so we had better be able to beat them, or else she will never hear the end of it. (Which I didn't think was necessarily true – the 'her never hearing the end of it' part – because Mercedes isn't petty, and Finn knows better than to taunt his girlfriend if he wins over her.)

When Leroy and Hiram arrive to pick Rachel up, I am actually a bit sad to see her go.

Which is totally ridiculous, seeing as how I'll be meeting up with her again in less than an hour at the Open House. … What is _wrong_ with me?

I have to admit, I'm relieved when neither of her dads come to the door to retrieve her; rather, Rachel gathers her stuff and leaves my house to walk out to their car, thanking my mother for her hospitality on the way out. I know that my mom – and dad, when he gets here – are about to discover that Rachel's parents don't fit the stereotypical dynamic very soon, but this sick part of me wants to prolong the revelation as long as possible.

…And an even sicker part of me wants to ensure that they never have to find out at all.

* * *

><p>"I made it out alive!" Sam says dramatically, running toward me and scooping me into his arms. He lifts me up by the waist and spins around a few times.<p>

"Sam! Put me down!" I hiss, cheeks flaring crimson at the spectacle he's making. Parents watch us, some amused but most raising curious eyebrows toward my boyfriend's antics.

"Sorry," he says, setting my feet mercifully back onto the tile. He runs a hand through his floppy blond hair and grins. "I'm just so excited that my parents didn't ground me when they found out I'm failing! They just made me promise I would start coming before and after school twice a week for extra help."

"That's great." I smile, catching a bit of his enthusiasm.

"Yeah," he says, reaching out and tucking a stray lock of my hair behind my ear. His touch is so gentle, and his tone is so soft and sweet when he adds, "That means I'll still be able to hang out with you. I can take you out to dinner this weekend, and we can be together."

Guilt, that now-familiar adversary, arrives and waves at me smugly before kicking me right in the stomach.

"That's…awesome!" I insist, hoping my smile doesn't look as weak as it feels. "I can't wait to, um, to hang out with you." I lift up on my tiptoes and brush a quick peck to his cheek.

"Quinn! There you are!"

"I should have known Sammy would run off to find his girlfriend."

We turn to find our parents striding toward us, smiling affectionately at their respective daughter and son.

Sam and I exchange greetings with the other's parents. Then, we engage in small talk for a few minutes. I play the part of Charming and Friendly Young Girl very well, if I do say so myself.

Finally, Sam and his parents have to part ways with us, seeing as how the next classroom of his they need to visit is on the other side of the school from the one my parents and I are going to next.

I hug Sam a temporary good-bye and wave to his parents before walking off with mine.

"Such a kind boy," Mom says. "And he treats our Quinnie so well."

"And he comes from a great family," Dad adds, ruffling my hair. "I'm proud of you." He's proud of me for having a boyfriend that comes from a respectable family? Isn't that just sheer genetic luck on Sam's part? And what does that even have to do with me? … Okay then.

"So, where's Rachel?" Mom asks. "We've been here for almost an hour, and still no sign of her or her parents."

"Yeah, I need to meet this girl who's been stealing my daughter away all week," Dad jokes. His wording… Oh, God. He really needs to watch his wording.

"I'm sure we'll run into her soon," I say. "It's not exactly a huge school."

As if being summoned from our conversation, who should round the corner before us? None other than Miss Rachel Berry herself.

And I hate how relieved I am that her dads are not with her.

"Quinn!" she squeals, rushing over to me. She pounces on me with a giant hug, squeezes the air right from my lungs.

And rather than whining and blushing like with Sam, I find myself giggling and hugging her back just as tightly. Call it temporary insanity if you want.

"Hey, Rach," I pull away from her after a moment, and I smile at how happy she is to see me. My stomach is all warm and fuzzy inside…you know, because I'm so…flattered.

"Hello, Mrs. Fabray," Rachel nods at my mom, then turns to my dad, "and Mr. Fabray, whom I have not had the pleasure of meeting until now."

My dad smiles at her. I can tell he's already awarded her points for using 'whom' rather than 'who.'

"Hello there," he says, accepting the hand she offers and giving it a brief shake. "Nice to meet you. We were actually just talking about you, actually."

"Speak of the devil, and all that," Mom chuckles.

"Oh!" Rachel flushes, pleased. "I'm honored."

"Where are your parents?" Dad asks curiously, scanning the perimeter for any sign of them.

"They had to use the restroom, but I told them which classroom to meet me, so they should be intersecting us on this path any moment now."

We stand there for a few seconds, all smiling at each other in a way that is just a little bit awkwardly too-polite, but isn't full-out uncomfortable by any means.

"Oh, here they are!" Rachel exclaims as her dads come into view, their hands linked and their steps close together. It's a far cry from my own parents, walking at least a foot apart, making no physical contact whatsoever.

"Daddy! Papa!" she waves her arms over her head, as if they could possibly miss seeing her in the near-empty hallway. "Yoo-hoo!"

I hazard a glance toward my mom and dad; their reactions make my stomach curdle.

Mom's smile is frozen in place, her eyes as big and strained as the fists curling around her skirt. And Dad…I can't even. I think I may faint. He's…his smile, the friendliness in his eyes, the easygoing posture – it all vanishes. He first stares at Rachel's dads in complete confusion, but it only takes a few seconds for everything to click into place for him, and now the expression all over his face, his body, his eyes, his _everything_, is one of half-horror, half-disgust.

I whip my own panicked glance over to Hiram and Leroy; they have reached us now, and are standing unaware with Rachel nestled between them. A typical happy family. Only they're not typical at all, not in any sense of the word. And I suddenly feel the intense urge to snatch them all up and run these kind, friendly-faced men and their impossible, enigmatic daughter far away from the cold, judgmental eyes of my mom and dad.

I think I might puke.

"Hello," Leroy says, smiling. He holds out his great paw of a hand to either of my parents. "I'm Leroy Berry, Rachel's father. It's a true pleasure to finally be able to meet you both."

"And I'm Hiram, Rachel's other dad. Quinn was such a joy to have over yesterday that we couldn't wait to meet the wonderful family she must come from." Hiram keeps his hands in his pockets; his smile is too big, his eyes pained behind his glasses. He knows. He knows what my parents are thinking.

My mom can only stare at Leroy's hand, still in shock. My dad, however, surprises me – surprises _everybody_, I think – by clapping his hand onto Leroy's and shaking.

"Russell Fabray," Dad says. "And my lovely _wife_, Judy." Dad now wears a mask of hard indifference; I can _see_ his knuckles protruding from how tightly he grips Leroy's hand, and he issues a series of ridiculously hard pumps before releasing.

My lower lip trembles at the wince that flashes across Leroy's face from the vice-grip handshake, at the way he flexes his hand to work out the pain.

I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole when my dad actually _wipes his hand off on his pants leg,_ in what I'm sure he thinks is a subtle maneuver, but does not escape the attention of Hiram's narrowing eyes.

"Dads, y-you should see the, um, the…" Rachel's voice is thin as she flounders to control the thick, suffocating tension that fills the air like a dark storm cloud.

I have been unable to look at her until now, and I feel cold, cold shame at the way she is holding onto both of her dads' arms, in this protective manner. At the way her face is a few shades paler than normal, and she is actually _stuttering_. Rachel Berry, _the_ most competent speaker I have ever met, with one of the best vocabularies, is having difficulty expressing herself – that may be the most telling of all.

"The d-dog that Quinn…" Rachel trails off mid-sentence, her eyes landing on the floor.

"My dog!" The words jump from my mouth of their own accord, but I keep going, making sure to offer small but genuine smiles to first Hiram, then Leroy, and finally to Rachel, who looks up and catches my gaze. "Yeah, um, I have a pet dog named Buttercup, and she's, like, um, she's really sweet and she's cute and she's sw – yeah…she's…Buttercup!"

The Berry family smile at me, these tiny but grateful smiles, and I feel like I may burst into tears right then and there. This is a waking nightmare.

"That's great," Hiram says sadly. "We love animals. Did Rachel ever tell you about Miss Pa – "

"We need to get going," Dad interrupts, seizing my mom's hand and then mine, territorially.

Mom remains mute.

"O-okay then," Rachel says. "It was nice seeing you again."

"It was a pleasure to meet you both," Leroy says with a terse nod.

Dad grunts in a noncommittal fashion before pulling his wife and daughter down the opposite end of the hallway.

I look over my shoulder and lock eyes with Rachel one last time.

Her smile is not a smile at all, but rather a mere upward twitch of her lips. Tears glitter in her eyes.

And I know that I should yank my hand from my dad's sweaty, overpowering grasp. I know I should go back to the Berry family and apologize for my family's rudeness. I know I should do _something_, damn it.

But instead, I just blink a few times, trying to combat the hot moisture in my eyes, and I turn my neck forward again, struggling to match the brisk, heavy steps with which my father leads.


	8. Chapter 8

I'm on a writing kick today with this story. So, here you go. Enjoy! :)

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER EIGHT<strong>

To his credit, Dad manages to wait forty-five minutes until he explodes.

That's how long it takes us to finish going through the Open House (throughout which my parents slip easily into a façade of Big Happy Family with me while they talk to my teachers and some of my classmates' parents), drive home (throughout which everything is dead silent for the five minute ride), and enter the house.

Dad slams the door behind him; Mom hangs her purse on the coat rack; I hurry to the stairs, preparing to dart up them and make my escape….

No such luck.

"Where the hell do you think you're going, young lady?"

I freeze mid-step, my hand grazing the railing. Slowly, I back away from the stairs – from my last hope at securing a halfway-decent end to this hellish night – and turn around to face my parents.

Mom stands at my dad's side, offering him silent support, but her blank gaze stays locked on the couch.

Dad's arms are crossed over his chest; his face is a dark, dangerous shade of red, and is screwed with fury.

I almost never get in trouble with my parents, but the few times I do, it's like all the floodgates of anger have been unleashed, and my dad goes to town lashing out on me. Sometimes, my mom joins in with a fair share of scolding, but she usually chooses to let him do all the talking.

"I was going up to my room," I answer. My voice is quiet. Small. I want to shrink away. Usually, I stand my ground while facing off against my dad – I'm stubborn like that. But tonight is different. Everything about tonight is different, unchartered territory. And I don't have a map or even a flashlight to help me find the right path.

"Like hell you are!" he bellows. "What was that all about, Quinn? Why didn't you tell us beforehand about Rachel? And those men with her?"

I struggle to find the perfect excuse. Nothing comes to mind. "I…I didn't think it was a big deal, I guess." I shrug, trying to play this off as some casual miscommunication, as if Dad asked for sugar and I handed him salt. But it's foolish of me to try to downplay this; it only riles him up more.

"You didn't think it was a big deal! Do you know how _humiliating_ it was for your mother and me to be put in that kind of awkward situation? Do you understand how _dangerous_ it is for you to be around those two men? If they have no trouble being sinners together, what makes you think they'll have no qualms going after a pretty young girl like you?"

My jaw drops; my legs shake, knees buckling together. Thank God I have this stair railing close by, which I find myself clawing at with one hand, desperately; I feel like I was just knocked down, physically assaulted by my father's words.

"How can you say such horrible things, Daddy?" I yell. My face, my neck –they're hot, itchy. I feel uncomfortable, out of place, as if I'm wearing somebody else's skin. "Rachel's dads would _never_ do something like that! They're about as far from dangerous as you can get. Besides, they are _gay_, so _obviously_ they wouldn't even be interested in a 'young girl' like me." I cannot control the implied '_duh, _you moron!' that sizzles in my tone.

"They are disgusting and unnatural! How dare you stand there and defend a couple of faggots over your own father. They've already worked their left-wing agenda into your brain!"

My eyes prickle with tears. The house is sweltering; sweat breaks out across the back of my neck, my hairline, under my arms. When did it get so _hot_ in here? And so _small_, the walls so close to each other?

So casually. He used that word so _casually_, so _hatefully_.

"I don't want you to ever hang around with that Rachel girl again. Do you hear me? … Lucy Quinn Fabray, you answer me _right now!_"

"Y-yes sir."

"If I ever hear you mention _that girl_ or those two men associated with her, you will be grounded until the end of the school year. ... _Do you hear me?_"

"Y-yes, okay, okay!"

He lifts his fingertips to his temples and massages; his eyes squeeze shut. "Judy, go get me some aspirin. I feel a migraine coming on."

Mom flees to the kitchen while I flee upstairs.

I wait until I am in my bedroom, the door shut behind me, before allowing the warm tears to spill over. I press my back against the door and sink to the ground, drawing my knees up to my chest.

My chest is tight, shrunken; my heart throbs like a bruise. I can barely breathe through my silent sobs.

Never, in all of my life, have I been more ashamed.

And the worst part is, I don't know if I'm ashamed of my father, or if I'm ashamed of myself.

Of who I am.

* * *

><p>I leave the house early the next morning. So early, in fact, that both of my parents are still asleep. I was unable to sleep the night before; I have to use about half a jar of concealer under my eyes to disguise the shadows. I don't even want to talk about the sorry state my hair is in, pulled back into a stubby, sorry excuse for a ponytail.<p>

I get to school an hour and a half before the first class starts. I sip at the coffee I bought along the way; the heady scent, the strong hazelnut taste, and the heat from it help to calm my still-jittery nerves. I made sure to get decaf, not wanting to get even _more_ wound-up, lest I want to snap apart like a too-taut rubber band.

Fifteen minutes of sitting on the top step, and finally Principal Figgins arrives to unlock the doors. It's still dark outside, the air cool and crisp. He wears a thicker jacket than normal, and a surprised expression upon seeing me.

"Hello, Miss Fabray," he says, sticking the keys into the lock. "Why are you here so early? Did Mr. Schuester schedule an early Glee Club practice? Beware of the rats in the air vents – they like to hunt at this time of the morning, and some of them are larger than yourself. They must be eating the leftover cafeteria food, which has been rumored to hold genetic-altering properties once it goes stale… Probably shouldn't have mentioned that."

Principal Figgins' inane rambling helps me take my mind off of my own problems for a few minutes. I even manage to quirk a tiny smile.

"No, there's no Glee meeting right now; I just wanted to get here early, I guess."

"Suit yourself," Figgins shrugs and, when he thinks I'm not looking, twirls his forefinger near the side of his head, like 'cuckoo, cuckoo.' I swear, he can be even more immature than his students.

I enter the school and head down to the auditorium. Once inside, I flip on the lights and take a seat in the very front, directly from the middle of the stage.

The batch of early students coming for homework help or sports practice will be arriving any minute now, though I doubt any of them will need to use the auditorium.

It's silent in here. Calm. The ghosts of a thousand past performances flit across the stage, making me visit memory upon memory of mash-ups and dance routines and that one time all of us had to do 'Proud Mary'…in wheelchairs. (Don't ask.)

I smile to myself at the memories, but it's a sad smile that never reaches my eyes. I continue working at my coffee, taking slow, deliberate sips, hoping it will clear the leftover fog from my mind. I wonder if I will ever stop feeling sick to my stomach. If my heart will ever stop squeezing when my thoughts are inevitably yanked back to last night.

Probably not.

But don't they say that time heals all wounds? Well, whoever 'they' are, they had better be right, or I will have to hunt them down and punch them in the face for presenting me with false hope.

Suddenly, the doors open behind me, and the sound of laughter enters the auditorium, followed by two pairs of footsteps, and then the sound of the double-doors clanging shut.

I sink down in my seat, wishing I could turn invisible for just a few minutes. I need more alone time, just until I can put on a convincing enough smile to whoever is here.

"Our duet is going to be the best!" I'd know that voice anywhere; it belongs to Kurt, and he sounds excited, giddy, even. "I know Rachel and Quinn are doing a mash-up – and let's face it, they're our stiffest competition – but there's no way they'll be able to top what we've put together."

"Agreed." The next voice is definitely Blaine's. "I mean, come on! We have _top hats_ on our side. _Nothing_ can beat top hats." I think he's joking, but I can't see his body language to confirm this; Kurt laughs appreciatively, so I guess he is.

They come into view, passing by my row, heading toward the steps leading up to the stage. I bet they're here to practice one last time before they present their duet to Glee after school.

I figure I should say something before they get up there and spot me creeping in the shadows. Well, not really the shadows, more like front and center, but whatever.

"Hey, guys."

Blaine jumps at least a foot in the air, and Kurt releases a shriek, his hand flying over his heart. In near unison, they whip around to face me, their faces ashen and eyes wide.

"Good God, Quinn!" Kurt snaps. "Thank you very much for taking five years off of my life and threatening an onslaught of premature white hairs!" He moves his hand from his heart and up to his head, tenderly poking at his coif, which is hairsprayed into perfection.

Blaine nudges Kurt in the ribs and offers me a friendly smile. "Yeah, you really startled us," he says, producing a good-natured but slightly shaky chuckle. "We didn't know anybody else was in here."

I shrug. "Sorry. I came to school really early today, and I figured the auditorium was as good a place as any to hang out in before classes start."

Blaine nods at this while Kurt purses his lips.

"So," Kurt says, folding his arms over his chest. "I talked to Rachel on the phone last night. She was near tears."

My stomach roils even more, if that were even possible, tossing my coffee around like high-tide ocean waves. "Really?" I ask. I mean to sound casual, but I just sound tired, not even bothering to be convincing. There's no use acting like I don't know what he's talking about. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Oh, I bet you are," he says harshly. "Considering it was your family that made her feel that way."

"You know what, Kurt?" I say, standing up and slinging my purse over my shoulder, followed by my backpack. I take another swig of my coffee, nearly gone now, trying to draw a last reserve of strength.

I make sure I'm looking him right in the eyes. He lifts an impatient eyebrow at me. Meanwhile, Blaine chews on his lower lip, gaze jumping back and forth between his boyfriend and me, looking uncertain on how to placate the situation.

"She's not the only one who had a shitty time yesterday and a bad night." I begin to exit the aisle, ready to leave the auditorium and get away from Kurt's judgmental attitude. I can understand why he's so quick to peg me as the villain, since I've never given him any reason not to, but I'm not in the mood to deal with this right now. "You can't pick your family, okay? Not everyone's dad can be Mike Brady like yours."

His face takes on something like confusion at this; he looks to Blaine, a question in his eyes, but Blaine is staring at me sadly, sympathetically. Maybe his home life isn't so perfect either.

I leave the auditorium, taking the exit by the stage. "Quinn…" Kurt calls after me, hesitantly yet loudly, but I ignore him, letting the _click_ing shut of the door be my only response.

* * *

><p>Rachel and I have first period together. English class. She sits in the front row (no surprise there), while I sit at the very back, next to Santana and Brittany.<p>

I take my seat ten minutes before the first bell rings, which will indicate that we only have five minutes to get to class before we're marked as late. I know Rachel will walk in any minute; I'm surprised she's not in here already, for she usually beats first bell altogether. I'm hoping I'll be able to talk to her alone before class starts.

It's just me in here right now; the teacher hasn't even showed up yet.

To my displeasure, the first person to stride through the doors is Rick Nelson. Rick is the captain of the hockey team; he's tall and thick-necked with a terrible red mullet and a cocky grin filled with crooked teeth. He pegs himself as Rick 'the Stick' Nelson, but I've always referred to him as Rick 'the Dick' Nelson. That one holds much more truth to it.

He spots me and a wolfish smirk stretches up his blotchy face. "_Ow, ow, ooowww!_ Quinn Fabraaaayyy, looking sexy as ever."

Yeah… The creep has had a thing for me ever since we were freshman, and each year he only gets more obnoxious about it. Even though I always make it clear how much I loathe him.

I choose to ignore Rick, pointedly looking down at my notebook and clicking my pen a few times as if it's the most fascinating thing I've ever seen.

Of course, he's too oblivious to notice my complete lack of interest; he plops down in the seat in front of mine, turning around and resting his forearms on the top of his chair. And then he just stares at me, grinning smugly.

"You coming to my party this weekend?"

"Has hell frozen over yet?"

"_Ooh_." He cringes and overlaps one hand onto the other, over his heart. "That stings, Fabray. That really does. … Or, it would, if I didn't know that this fiery dislike you have going toward me is just pent-up lust, ready to burst out in a fit of passion the next time we're alone together."

The grossest part is, he's actually serious. He actually is that delusional. It's sickening.

"Rick," I say sweetly, tilting my head and flashing an angelic smile, "have you always been this dense and clueless, or have you taken one too many hockey pucks to that thick skull of yours?"

Rick narrows his eyes at me. _Good._ An angry Rick is better than a trying-to-get-into-my-pants Rick.

"Watch it now," he says. "This foreplay of hard-to-get will only last so much longer before one of us makes a move."

My skin crawls. "Try anything, and I'll break that _stick_ of yours."

To my disgust, he looks turned on by this, his eyes flicking over my gray cotton shirt with maroon sleeves, trying to undress me with his eyes. "Let me know when you want to go near my _stick,_" he says. "Any time, honey. Any time."

Thank God Santana and Brittany arrive at that moment, catching the gist of Rick's statement.

"Yo, dead-raccoon-hair! Get the hell away from my girl, or Imma shove my pencil so far up your ass, it'll come out your ugly nose, and you'll fart eraser dust for a week!" Santana shouts. Rick glares at her but turns around in his seat, facing forward. Like most people, – boy or girl, it doesn't matter – he's secretly afraid of Santana and her 'I'm from Lima Heights Adjacent' attitude.

"Santana," Brittany says in a scolding manner. Santana sits down next to me, and Brittany sits on the other side of her. "Don't make fun of dead raccoons; they're way prettier than Rick's hair."

I laugh, loving the way Rick's shoulders tense up with anger. He deserves that. _Perv_.

The bell rings it's shrill, high-pitched warning. A few more of my classmates enter the room and take their seats, but there's still no sign of Rachel.

Finally, just moments before the late bell, she hurries in and plops down, the only person to sit at the front. Before slipping into her chair, she sneaks a quick look my way; I try to give her a little smile, but she turns away too fast. My mouth flips into a frown, and my heart gives a squeeze.

This is going to be a _long_ day.


	9. Chapter 9

Happy Mother's Day! XD Here's a shout-out to my own mama, who is super awesome and amazing, and I couldn't have asked for a better one.

Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed, alerted, or favorited this story. I love hearing your opinions. Feedback = my cake and candy. So let's get some yummy desserts going, shall we? ;)

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER NINE<strong>

I finally have an opportunity to talk to Rachel at the beginning of lunch. I'm on my way to the cafeteria when I see her brunette head bobbing through the crowd, her regally held posture giving her away.

"Rachel! Wait up!"

She doesn't hear me, or she's ignoring me: either way, she doesn't slow her fast pace.

I sigh loudly and with an ample amount of frustration as I put on a burst of speed; finally, I catch up to her purposeful strides. Thank God she has such short legs.

I plant my hand on her shoulder and whip around her, stopping toe-to-toe with her petite frame. I remove my hand before she can slap it away. But when I look down into her eyes, I'm surprised that she doesn't look the least bit angry. Rather, she just looks tired, as if she also didn't sleep well.

She also looks so cute. I hate to say it, but she does. Her hair is pulled up into a ponytail, but unlike my sloppy one, hers is chic, showing off the graceful arch of her neck, the delicate curve of her feminine collarbone. Her lips wear this awesome shade of red.

She wears a tight white dress, short-sleeved and knee-length, with tiny red cartoon lips all over it. Her shoes are red penny loafers with bright white tube socks that stop at the top of her calves. She just looks so…typically Rachel. Her familiar, questionable fashion taste is probably the only thing that's made sense all day – hell, all _week_.

"Look," I say, "I know you're mad at me, but – "

"Mad at you?" Rachel says, sounding genuinely confused. She jerks back her head in a way that sends her ponytail rocking back and forth like a pendulum. "Why would I be mad at you?"

A few people jostle us as they pass by, doling out rude comments. I pull us off to the side, next to a row of lockers, and lower the volume of my voice when I answer her.

"Because of how my parents treated yours yesterday. How rude my dad was, how silent my mom was. Kurt said you called him last night, crying. I just…your dads are really nice. Um…I…they don't deserve how judgmental my parents were, and I'm…I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry." I bite down on my lower lip and search her eyes with my own, scared of what I'll see, of the emotions I'll find. I've never apologized to Rachel before; apologies tend to make me feel nervous and vulnerable. I'm always afraid the other person will throw my words back in my face, make me feel weak.

Rachel's eyes soften. She presses her hand to my arm and nods a few times. "Quinn, I appreciate your apology. You don't know how much it means to me. But I can assure you, my dads and I never once blamed you. We saw how uncomfortable you were by your parents' behavior; you even helped me by talking about Buttercup, remember? Yes, I was very upset last night, because truth be told, my dads were crestfallen by the exchange. It brought up some bad memories for them. But I never once was upset with _you_, okay?"

"Okay," I say. A lump hardens in my throat; I cough and swallow, trying to get rid of it.

"I'm going to hug you now," Rachel says matter-of-factly, offering the smallest and gentlest of smiles. She leans in and pulls me into a tight embrace.

My heart skips a beat; she smells like lavender and vanilla and…angels. I hug her back, resting my chin on top of her silky hair, closing my eyes.

And for just a second, everything melts away.

I am just Quinn: no labels, no confusion, no shame.

All that exists is lavender-vanilla, the radiance of body heat, and of her tiny waist beneath my arms.

* * *

><p>Kurt and Blaine weren't exaggerating back in the auditorium.<p>

Their duet is amazing.

They sing 'The Way You Look Tonight' by Tony Bennett, but to a more upbeat tempo. And they actually do wear top hats, complete with canes and black tailcoats. They're entire performance is aurally amazing and visually adorable, the two of them dancing together and kicking up the heels of their shiny black dress shoes, dancing around our resident piano man, Brad, as he plays the tune. They preen and prance and hit all the right notes, harmonizing beautifully.

I sit between Rachel and Sam on the risers, and the former and I continuously exchange worried or impressed looks throughout their song-and-dance, knowing that this is the one to beat.

When they finish, they link hands and bow deeply at the waist, giant grins all over their faces. The Glee Club gives them a standing ovation, clapping our hands and making joking cat-calls. Finn even sticks his forefingers in his mouth and blasts an ear-piercing, approving whistle. Rachel turns to him and laughs, hugging him around the side; I quickly look away, back to Kurt and Blaine, who are now hugging and swaying back and forth. They share a sweet kiss before returning to their seats.

"Wow!" Mr. Schuester says once we've all quieted down. "That was fantastic! Well done, guys! Our last duet is Quinn and Rachel, tomorrow. Good luck to you two; after all of the awesome performances this week, you guys are going to need it." He chuckles warmly, smiling at all of us with fatherly affection.

"Don't worry, Mr. Schue," Rachel says proudly, rolling back her shoulders even further and beaming like the sun. "Quinn and I are bringing our A-game. No, _better_ than our A-game."

"Yeah," I say. "You'd better watch out."

* * *

><p>"Yo, Q," Santana says about thirty minutes later, after Mr. Schue has dismissed us for the day. "You want to go get those mani-pedis with me and Britt now?"<p>

"It'll be fun!" Brittany insists, smiling. "Lord Tubbington taught me some Vietnamese last night, so I'll finally be able to prove that the ladies doing our nails are gossiping about me."

"Um…" I say, looking over at Rachel. She and Finn stand off to the side, talking and laughing and being a generally happy couple. Whoopee for them.

"I don't know. I really need to practice with Rachel today. Could we take a rain check?"

"Quinn," Brittany says slowly, as if speaking to a toddler, "it's not raining outside. And if it were, you know that banks don't issue accounts to weather. Rain doesn't even have hands to be able to cash your check." She shakes her head at me, as if feeling sorry for my lack of common sense.

Santana narrows her eyes at me. "If I didn't know better, I would think you were actually enjoying hanging out with the hobbit. Seeing as how you keep ditching us to hang out with _her_." She shoots a quick glare toward Rachel before looking back at me, lifting her eyebrows accusingly.

I'm too mentally exhausted to deal with this – that, coupled with my lack of sleep, has me wanting to be real for once and not bullshit around.

"You know what? I actually do enjoy hanging out with her. This week, she's shown me that she's actually really fun. So you can stop talking to me if you want because I'm suddenly not cool enough for you, or you can be a decent human being and not give me a hard time. So, what will it be? Mani-pedis together this Saturday, or are you done with me forever just because I'm friends with 'the hobbit'?" I frame finger-quotes around these last two words.

Santana makes a show of huffing out a long, loud sigh and rolling her big brown eyes. "God, don't be so _dramatic._ I see you've already picked that up from her. You know, fine, whatever; you just better be there on Saturday, because there _is_ something I won't allow with my so-called friends, and that's when they blow off finalized plans."

She turns to Brittany and links their pinkies together. "Come on, Britts. Let's go film that new segment of _Fondue for Two_."

"Okay! I'll call Lord Tubbington and tell him he needs to get out the video camera."

I watch as they stroll off together. I smile as they push through the doors, pinkies connected in a forever promise.

And even though they – well, mostly Santana – may not cut me enough slack at times, I know that, when it comes down to it, they really do care about our friendship.

I walk over to Rachel and Finn. "Hey, guys."

"Hi," Finn smiles. "Where's Sam?"

"It's not like we have to be glued at the hip all the time," I point out. "Sam was one of the first to leave. Something about not wanting to be late for an X-Box tournament."

"Oh! Right!" Finn says. He smacks himself on the forehead. "I totally forgot about that. I better get going, since I'm on his team."

"Oh, my brave boyfriend, marching out onto the virtual frontlines," Rachel says proudly.

Finn grins. "I'll call you later."

I look away as they kiss.

"See you later, Quinn," Finn says over his shoulder as he leaves. "Bye, Rach."

"See ya," I say.

"Bye, honey!" Rachel giggles, fluttering her fingers after him, even though his back is toward us.

"Soooo…" I say, rocking back on my feet. "Can we go to your place? My parents kind of…well, my dad banned me from ever hanging out with you again. So, my house is out of the question."

"Actually, I was thinking we could rehearse in the auditorium. The acoustics will be far better in there. But…if you want to come over for dinner…that would be really cool," she says, growing a bit shy toward the end.

I smile at her. "I would love to, but I'm going to have to come up with a good enough excuse as it is with my parents. If I stay out too long, it may be suspicious that I'm 'staying after school today to work on a science project,' which is what the note says that I left for them on the counter."

"Okay then," Rachel says. "Just know that you're still welcome at my house. My dads still think you're awesome. They know that parents don't define who their children are."

"Thank God for that," I mumble.

Rachel nudges her shoulder against mine. "Come on now; cheer up. Let's go get our happy on and practice one hell of a mash-up."

"Okay," I say, holding out my pinky. "Let's do it!"

Rachel looks down at my little finger; she beams and releases a giddy giggle. She knows the friendship it implies. The acceptance and loyalty that it represents.

She curls her pinky around mine and together we skip out of the room, giggling like the silly girls that we are.

Now I can tell why Santana and Brittany link pinkies so often.

Because, man! I've never felt more like a woman.

… Sorry, that was really cheesy.

* * *

><p>When I get home from rehearsal, my dad does the last thing I ever would have expected him to do.<p>

He greets me with a big hug.

I'm so shocked that it takes me a few seconds until I manage to hug him back.

"I love you, Quinnie," he whispers, holding me against him. I feel warm and protected. "I'm so sorry about yesterday. I shouldn't have taken my anger and disgust out on you. You're innocent here."

When we pull away, I kiss him on the cheek. He smiles and ruffles my hair.

"It's okay, Daddy," I say. "I forgive you. And I'm sorry that I didn't tell you beforehand."

I almost don't add the question, but I just have to know. "So…does this mean I can hang out with Rachel again?"

Dad's smile slips off his face. "Honey," he says, sighing. "I love you too much to put you in that type of a situation. Even if they aren't dangerous, like you claim, they are still polluting your mind and making you perceptible to thinking that the way they live is _right_ or holy. Please understand that I'm doing this for your own good."

My brief feeling of total security vanishes, replaced by the familiar knots, roping around my stomach. "Dad, I promise they aren't trying to brainwash me or anything. I can think for myself. I know what is wrong or right, what is holy or unholy. Her dads are good people."

"Sinners aren't good people, Quinn."

"Aren't we all sinners?"

Irritation flashes across Dad's face; he begins walking away from me. "This is different."

"How?" I demand, panic flaring through me.

"It just is! Okay? It just is."

I think about the way Hiram and Leroy held hands at the Open House, when my own parents didn't even walk close enough to touch. I think about how Hiram and Leroy are so kind and accepting, of the way they looked at each other when I was over at their house, with such complete and total adoration and love.

But this time, I don't feel secondhand warmth and fuzziness from them.

Instead, I feel sick to my stomach.


	10. Chapter 10

Thank you to everyone who is staying with this story. :) However, there is one thing... I ain't too proud to beg... Please, you guys, reviewreviewreview. I love hearing what you think.

Also, important: This chapter has the mash-up in it. I do not claim to own the rights to any of the lyrics; however, I did arrange the mash-up myself - though I also don't claim to be a professional mash-up maker, so hopefully it turned out nicely, haha. Anyway, **Quinn's singing parts** will be in **bold**; Rachel's will be underlined; and_ Quinn and Rachel together_ will be in_ italics_.

**CHAPTER TEN**

That night, I pray to God, thinking back over the entire week.

I think about all of the strange, foreign feelings Rachel makes me feel – and how they aren't really that foreign to me at all.

I think about how I feel nothing from Sam's kisses, nothing from the soft way he looks at me. Nothing other than guilt, that is.

I think about Leroy and Hiram, of how my parents view them. Particularly, of how my dad vehemently pegs them as 'sinners.'

I ask God for guidance. I ask Him to show me down the right path.

Tears fall from my closed eyes; my prayer-position hands wobble back and forth. My knees dig into my carpet, body hunched before my bed.

By the end of my prayers, I know what I must do.

I know that family is far more important than anything. Than any_one_.

So, in order to honor my family, and in order to honor God… I must choose the path of righteousness.

I must push away my sinful thoughts and feelings.

In short: I can't be friends with Rachel anymore.

_It's the right thing to do_, I tell myself as I crawl into bed and get under the covers.

_It's the right thing to do_.

But if that's the truth, then why do these tears keep falling onto my pillow?

"You ready?" Rachel asks.

It's the next day, after school, and we're in the girls' restroom, locked into separate stalls. We're changing into our costumes, about to go and perform our duet for Glee Club.

"As I'll ever be," I say.

It's hard being in Rachel's presence, let alone talking to her. I'm doing a pretty good job faking it so far – pretending like I'm carefree, normal, happy. She has no clue that I'm miserable inside, knowing that this is the last day I'm allowing myself to hang out with her, to laugh with her, to perform a freaking _duet_ with her. This is my own farewell party to our friendship, and I'm the only one who's knowingly in attendance. Get out the balloons and streamers already; whoo-to-the-freaking-hoo.

We step out of the stalls in near unison, catch each other's eyes in the mirrors above the sink, and smiles light up our faces.

We look fabulous, if I do say so myself.

I curled both of our hair; Rachel's long mane cascades in a shower of ringlets, spilling past her shoulders, down her back. Mine only reaches my shoulders, but the curls make it look even thicker, more luxurious.

I wear one of my dad's button-down shirts, with the too-long-for-me sleeves rolled up to my elbows; the color is a dark, navy blue, and the buttons are cream-swirled and shiny. I also wear a denim mini-skirt and a pair of ruby red cowgirl boots sporting a fancy gold design.

Rachel is wearing one of Hiram's button-downs, a pretty pale pink that matches the cowgirl boots she borrowed from my mom. She also wears a mini-skirt, though hers is made of a flouncy material, and is raven-black, providing an awesome contrast to her otherwise feminine garb.

She steps closer to the mirror and touches up her bright pink lipstick. I follow suit, reapplying my own lipstick, which is the same shade of red as my boots.

"We look totally hot," Rachel giggles, shooting me a playful wink.

Something sharp digs deep inside of me; God, I'm going to miss her so much.

"Yes," I agree, forcing a convincing smile. "We do." I dig out my cell phone from my purse and pull her right against my side. "One last picture, okay?"

"_Last_ picture?"

"Um, you know. Before we go on."

"Okay!"

We lean into each other, the sides of our heads together, brown meeting blonde. We beam at the camera, saying "_cheeeeeese!_" and laughing as the flash clicks, sealing our moment of True Happiness for all of eternity.

I think back to Mr. Schue writing down the name of the assignment at the beginning of the week – which feels like a month ago – and I send him a grateful pat on the back.

For once, he was onto something.

We enter the choir room to the playful sounds of our friends wolf-whistling and cat-calling at us. Rachel and I hold hands, our fingers nestled together. I think back to yesterday, to our joined pinkies and our skipping steps. I'm already feeling sad and nostalgic, and the performance isn't even over yet. _Pull yourself together, Quinn._

"Hello, fellow ingénues," Rachel trills, bubbling over with excitement. "Quinn and I have worked out a very special, aurally-and-visually-delicious treat for you today."

"Orally? Hell yeah!" Puck cheers, pumping his fist in the air. Finn and Sam shoot him dirty looks. Sometimes, I wonder why I'm friends with him.

Rachel ignores his crass comment. "Quinn and I have prepared a wonderfully unique mash-up."

"It's Michael Bublé and Shania Twain," I say. "The former had a song that spoke to Rachel, while the latter had one that spoke to me. Together, we found our happiness for this assignment." Rachel and I exchange small, meaningful smiles before turning back to our friends. "I hope you guys enjoy."

"And without further ado, hit it, Brad!" Rachel says.

We drop hands, turn our backs to the room, and wait for the first note to sound.

_Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo... "_Let's go, girls."

In unison, Rachel and I spin to face the room after saying the opening line of dialogue together, cocking our hips to the tune.

"_**I'm going out tonight**_

_**I'm feelin' all right**_

_**Gonna let it all hang out**_

_**Wanna make some noise**_

_**Really raise my voice**_

_**Yeah, I wanna scream and shout**_

_**No inhibitions**_

_**Make no conditions**_

_**Get a little out of line**_

_**I ain't gonna act**_

_**Politically correct**_

_**I only wanna have a good time**_

_The best thing about being a woman_

_Is the prerogative to have a little fun_

_Oh, oh, oh!_

_Go totally crazy_

_Forget I'm a lady_

_Men's shirts_

_Short skirts_

_Oh, oh, oh!_

_I wanna be free, yeah!_

_To feel the way I feel_

_Man!_

_I'm feel…_

…_Ing good_

_Birds flying high_

_You know how I feel_

_Sun in the sky_

_You know how I feel_

_Breeze driftin' on by_

_You know how I feel_

_It's a new dawn_

_It's a new day_

_It's a new life_

_For me_

_And I'm feeling good_

_I'm feeling…_

_Like a woman!_

_Oh, oh, oh!_

_Really go wild, yeah!_

_Doin' it in style_

_Oh, oh, oh!_

_Get in the action_

_Feel the attraction_

_Color my hair_

_Do what I dare_

_Oh, oh, oh!_

_I wanna be free, yeah!_

_To feel the way I feel_

_And man!_

_I'm feel…_

…_Ing good_

_**Fish in the sea**_

_**You know how I feel**_

_River running free_

_You know how I feel_

_**Blossom on a tree**_

_**You know how I feel**_

_It's a new dawn_

_**It's a new day**_

_It's a new life_

_**It's a new dawn!**_

_It's a new day!_

_**It's a new life!**_

_And I'm fee-ee-ee-ee-ling…__ / __**Man! I feel like a**_

_Gooooooooooood__ / __**Woooooomaaaaaannnn!**__"_

Rachel and I _killed_ that duet.

We hit all of our dance beats in unison, playing to the crowd but also playing off of each other. We landed all of our notes, harmonizing perfectly together. But, most importantly, we had so much _fun! _It was one of the happiest moments of my entire life so far, singing and dancing and being completely carefree and liberated, performing with Rachel before our smiling friends and teacher. They clapped to the tune and even sang along in some parts, catching our infectious enthusiasm and the joy overflowing from us. I thought I would never stop smiling.

Now, Rachel and I stand together, taking a few deep breaths after completing such long, high final notes.

We turn to each other, positively beaming; she takes my hand in hers, sliding her fingers between mine. She squeezes; I squeeze back.

Rachel lifts our intertwined hands into the air, up above our heads. We grin at our friends, at our extended family, giving us a standing ovation much like the one Kurt and Blaine received yesterday – only ours is even _more_ exuberant.

Together, Rachel and I lower our hands back to our sides, bowing deeply at our waists as we do so. When we come back up, I draw her against me, giving her a side-hug. She hugs me back.

"We did it!" she giggle-whispers into my ear, sending a cascade of shivers to run down my neck.

"Yep," I laugh, breathless. "We sure did!"

And right here, in this moment, I don't think I will ever stop smiling.

"So, who won?"

Mr. Schue looks up from swinging his man-purse over his shoulder. He raises his eyebrows at Santana's question. "What do you mean?"

"She means, who will be determined the winner of the duet competition?" Rachel clarifies, bouncing on the edge of her seat with excitement.

"Oh…" Mr. Schue awkwardly latches his top teeth onto his lower lip for a moment. "You guys, I never said it was a _competition._ There is no one winner; you _all_ did a fantastic job. So, you _all_ won."

"Boo!"

"Hey, that's not fair!"

"Come on, Mr. Schue, we want to know who was the best!"

"All right, all right; settle down," Mr. Schue holds up his hands. "If you really want a winner, then fine. But the only prize will be the satisfaction of winning."

"Lame," Santana huffs.

"It's a close call," Mr. Schue says, ignoring Santana's typical rude comment. "The top would have to be…hmmm…well, Mercedes and Finn had a really fun, high-energy duet; Kurt and Blaine took a slower song and amped it up, complete with great costumes; and there's no denying the enjoyment Quinn and Rachel had together – and those high notes! Whoo!"

"Good luck," Rachel whispers to Finn. But she turns to me right afterward and whispers even quieter, "We are _so_ going to win."

"I'd have to say that Rachel and Quinn won," Mr. Schue finally decides.

"Told ya so!" Rachel squeals, throwing her arms around my neck. I laugh and hug her around her small waist, feeling my heart give a jolt at her nearness.

"Yay!" I say, laughing. The sound is free and light as it bubbles up my chest, over my lips, from every part of me. "Go us."

We pull away from each other and accept the congratulations of our friends. We are gracious winners, doling out compliments to our competitors and being sure to say 'thank you' and 'we're all winners, really' and other pleasantries.

"I would say this was a very successful assignment, you guys," says Mr. Schue, smiling proudly and maybe just a bit smugly. "You all took it to heart, and I can tell that happiness was spread around amongst you all. I hope that next week's assignment will be just as fun."

After that, Mr. Schue dismisses us. "Have a nice, safe weekend!" he says as he exits the room. I always find it kind of funny how he's usually one of the first to leave.

In pairs, everybody files out of the choir room. Everyone is laughing and smiling and cracking jokes; spirits are high and moods are fantastic. It's been a great day all around.

By chance, by fate, by coincidence, by whatever have you – either way, it ends up being only Rachel and me left in the room.

"That was _sooooo_ much fun!" Rachel exclaims, clasping her hands together and swaying back and forth. "Don't you think so, Quinn? We make an _excellent_ team! I can't wait until we do another duet together. We should do one at _least_ once a month…maybe even every other week. It's just not fair to not utilize our perfect harmonies as often as we should be."

I am silent as I gather my things. My heart is heavy in my chest; my movements feel weighted down, slow. "Mmm-hmmm," I say, only half-listening, already starting to mentally check-out of this friendship.

"You know what, Quinn, you should spend the night at my house tonight!" Rachel gasps at this fantastic idea of hers. Now _that_, I hear fully. I whip around to face her, my curls flying around my face. _Oh no. Oh no, please oh no, please don't make this harder than it already is, Rachel._

"Rachel," I begin, but she cuts me off, in full-on Rachel Berry Babble Mode now.

"I know that your father has banned you from hanging out with me, but you can just tell him you're staying at Santana's or Brittany's. _Not_," she says, "that I'm condoning that you lie, but seeing as how that's the only way we could spend time together…well, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do! We can have a movie marathon – I'll finally show you _Funny Girl,_ a Barbra staple that should be in everyone's household – and we can make vegan pancakes in the morning, and – "

"Rachel!" I interrupt. "No."

"'No' what?" she asks, smiling obliviously. "No pancakes? We can make waffles instead, if you want."

I swallow hard, take a deep breath. Prepare myself for battle. "No, I'm not going to your house. Ever."

Rachel's smile falls right off her face; her eyebrows scrunch in confusion, lower lip pouting. "Wha…what? Why not? I don't understand, Quinn. I thought we were friends."

"Well, you're wrong," I say coldly. "We were partners for this stupid assignment, and now that it's over I don't see any reason why we should have to waste our time together anymore."

"You don't mean that," Rachel insists. And then, less certainly, "Do you?"

"Yes."

"Quinn, come on now! I'm not an _idiot._ I _know_ you were having fun with me this week. I know that you _care_ about me, like I care about you. We are friends, whether you like it or not. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can quit living in denial and start having some real fun! Just think back to ten minutes ago, when we were performing together – you can't tell me you weren't having an absolute blast. I know a real smile when I see one."

As she speaks, she walks over to me, stopping a bit too close for my comfort. I stand frozen, unable to come up with a response. How can I get her to believe me? How can I convince her that I genuinely don't want anything to do with her anymore?

And then, just like that, I know what I have to do. What I have to say. And, oh Lord, it is _not_ going to be pretty. It's going to kill me to do this, but I have to, if I want to do the right thing.

"I can't be around someone who lives in a house of so much sin," I say, forcing each word out even though it leaves an acidic taste in my mouth, burns my stomach.

It takes a moment for what I've said to sink into Rachel. "Wait…_excuse me?_ Are you referring to my dads?"

"Yes, I am. They're gross and unnatural, Rachel. What they're doing is _wrong_. And I don't want anything to do with them…or you."

"How can you say that! You said so yourself: they're awesome! Has it really taken just a few days for your parents to brainwash you? Remember, parents don't define who their children are."

Rachel looks so sad, so disappointed; she reaches a hand out, touches my cheek. The gentleness of her fingertips stings every part of me; I wince, smack her hand away.

"Don't," I snap, harshly. "I don't want your germs. Gayness is contagious, you know." I don't even know where that came from, but it certainly does the trick.

Rachel draws back as if I've slapped her across the face. Her expression is bare for a moment; stripped down to the rawest of her vulnerability. But then it hardens, fury carving into her features like chiseling stone.

"How dare you. How _dare_ you! I thought you were my _friend!_" Rachel spits out the words, fierce and harsh and fast. Each syllable is a sharp lash across my face, cutting into tender flesh. "How can you say such awful things? What happened to make you so scared of living? Why are you a shell of a person? Why are you so _afraid_, Quinn?"

She takes another step further, her toes right up against mine. She plants her hands on her hips and squints up at me, this strange mix of accusation and bewilderment all over her face.

I'm aware of how close she is to me.

Oh God, she is so close to me.

Her warm breath puffs fast from flared nostrils.

I can see my blank expression in the darkness of her dilated pupils. Her eyes are warm, honey-amber, shining beams that cast light upon my shadowed face.

Her nose – her perfectly imperfect, adorable nose, which I used to mock endlessly for the simple fact that I _shouldn't _be thinking that it is 'perfect' or 'adorable' in anyway – _that_ very nose is just inches from mine.

Her lips – always flapping on and on about nothing of importance, and yet I always catch onto every word like fireflies in a jar that I never want to let go – those lips are only a few inches from mine.

She is trying to intimidate me, by stepping closer, staring straight into my eyes. Trying to make me back down. She mistakes the hard mask of indifference I wear, thinking I am careless towards her, not knowing that I wear this as a shield against myself and the sinner I do not want to be.

The silence has stretched on for too long. My eyes have dropped to her lips, lingering. Wondering. Tempting. _Wanting._

"What?" she demands, pushing her face just an inch closer to mine. Everything inside of me throbs, with anger at myself, with fury towards her for putting me in this situation; but also a quickened pulse of that dangerous word, of _want, want, want _thrumming through me, through every vein.

"Say something!"

It's a command.

My eyes dart back to her eyes, to the ire melting there replaced by confusion, and then my gaze has a mind of its own and I am staring at her mouth again.

Her perfect mouth: a thinner top lip and an indentation of a little dip in the middle of the bottom one. Again, perfectly imperfect.

My heart jumps from chest to throat; my eyes jump to her eyes; and the next thing I know, my sanity is jumping, too.

I lurch forward, my eyelids closing like blinds drawn tightly over a window, not letting anything in or anything out.

My lips collide into Rachel's, mouth digging on top of hers. I am: Needy and rough and _want, want, want,_ and I taste her: bubblegum-flavored ChapStick.

And my hands are on her tiny waist, digging into the fabric of her miniskirt, and I am pulling her against me. Our chests pressing, our thighs pressing, and our lips pressed into a single mouth.

She tastes so good, so delicious, I just want _more, more, more_; I can never have enough. I have never felt more alive.

I lean in against her warmth, part my lips against hers...

In reality, the whole thing happens in the snap of fingers; faster than a blink. One second I am thinking: _I want to kiss Rachel Berry_, and the next, I am quite literally throwing myself on her.

And so though I experienced so many mixing, swirling emotions, and though I am kissing Rachel, the reality is, she is not kissing me back.

A mere staggered heartbeat after I give in, after I let myself have her, the truth is, she doesn't want me.

She pushes, no _shoves_, me away from her so hard that I fall to the ground. My butt hits cold tile.

There are no words to describe how mortified I am right now. My face is _burning_; it will melt off, I just know it. And tears flood my lids so fast and so prickled, and I can't see anything but blurbs and blobs of colorful shapes.

"Oh my God!" Rachel says, drawing in a loud gasp.

I blink, and the barrage of hot tears spill over, down my warm face.

I jump to my feet and glare at her, though it's hard to act menacing considering I can feel my mascara smudging and, oh, you know, I am equal parts humiliated, disgusted with myself, and devastated.

"If you tell anyone about this, I will ruin you," I hiss. Well, I try to hiss it, but my voice is choked on a sob, and, _God,_ I couldn't be any more pathetic. "I will _ruin_ your life."

I run past her, out of the room, down the hall, far, far away.

My lower lip trembles almost as badly as my knees do. My heart is breaking, leaving splinters to cut into my chest, and I don't think I will ever stop crying.

And I know as I race out into the parking lot that I will never, ever be the same again.

I will try to go back because it is the only option. It is the right thing to do.

So I will try to go back to before I gave in, to before I took that jump, and I will for now on always pretend to be on steady ground.

But the truth is, I am falling, falling, falling, and I don't how to stop myself from the inevitable crash.


	11. Chapter 11

I meant to post this chapter sooner, but this last week was a very busy one for me. I want to say a ginormous, heartfelt "thank you" to all of those who reviewed; you guys are the most intelligent, intuitive, and caring readers I could ask for! XD As long as people are enjoying this, I will not abandon this again, I can promise you that. Please, keep the reviews coming; the more feedback I receive, the more excited I am to update.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER ELEVEN<strong>

I lock myself in my car, sink down as low as I can in my seat, and fight back the next onslaught of tears trying to escape. Thankfully, since it's so long after school, there is no one else in the parking lot, and there are only a few other cars still here besides my own. Also thankfully, is the fact that Rachel didn't chase after me or follow me out here – I don't need any extra humiliation. I believe I've just reached my quota for three lifetimes.

A few minutes and several soiled napkins later, and I've finally pulled myself together. I flip down the visor above my seat and inspect my reflection in the rectangular mirror.

My mascara has smeared under my eyes, but it's salvageable. My eyes aren't _that_ red; a few eye-drops will do the trick.

It's my mouth that really shows the damage.

My red lipstick is smudged all over; it looks like my mouth is bleeding at the edges. But worst of all is the fact that, when I kissed Rachel, some of her bright pink lipstick rubbed off on me.

Red and pink: a dark, bright combination. It looks like I sunk my teeth into a Valentine. Or Cupid himself.

Sighing, I pull my water bottle from my purse and dab it onto a napkin. I remove my ruined lipstick. I dampen another napkin and wipe off the smeared mascara. I apply a few eye-drops, and _bada-bing_, _bada-bam_, I'm as good as new.

Well, on the outside, at least.

_Think, Fabray! You're always in control. You always know how to get back on top. What would the Old, Non-Train wreck, Far Less Complicated Quinn do?_

My phone buzzes with a new text message. When I press down on the button to activate the screen, the first thing to pop up is the text message…but all I can focus on is the wallpaper behind it – the picture of me and Rachel, smiling in the bathroom, right before we did our performance.

It's hard to believe that was taken less than an hour ago. It already feels like days ago, maybe even weeks, that we were singing and dancing in the choir room, not a care or trouble in the world. Unstoppable. Free.

_Stop living in the past, and prepare for your future,_ I scold myself. I finally let my vision focus on the foreground of the screen, to the text message alert.

It's from Sam.

I select the 'Read' option and wait the few seconds for it to load into view.

Sammy-Poo: **hey baby. u want 2 come over? parents are gone, bro & sis are at a friend's house.**

And just like that, I know what I have to do. The revelation hits me like a bag of bricks, knocking the air from my lungs for a second, sending my head throbbing to the frenetic beat of my heart.

_It's so obvious! Why didn't I think of this before?_

Feeling renewed with purpose, I hit the 'Reply' button, unable to type my response fast enough.

Me: **I'll be there in five. See you soon. :) I love you!**

His response is almost instantaneous, arriving before I've had time to buckle my seat belt and turn the key in the ignition.

Sammy-Poo: **i love u more!**

And this time, upon reading those words from him, I don't feel a twisting in my stomach.

Rather, my heart gives a jolt of anticipation, and a determined nod works onto my neck.

* * *

><p>"Well hello, beautiful," Sam says, flicking his tongue over his lips and running his hand over the top of his hair. He's doing his best Joker-when-he-first-meets-Rachel-Dawes impersonation from <em>The Dark Knight<em>.

I smile; his pop culture references and occasional nerdiness is part of what endeared me to him in the first place.

Sam holds the door open for me and then kicks it closed with his foot. I look around the area of his small, respectably-sized apartment. At the bland white walls, the cheap carpeting, and the framed childhood and baby pictures of Sam, his brother, and sister. I've been here many times, and it's always stricken me as a place that's cozy to visit, but cramped to live.

"Hello yourself, handsome," I say, throwing my purse onto the couch.

"So, what do you want to do? We can play video games; I know how much you like Mario Party for the Wii. Or we could watch a mov –"

I don't give him time to finish his sentence; I capture either side of his face with my hands. I lift upward and crush my mouth right on top of his, shoving my body flush against him, moving my hands to wrap around his neck, locking us into place.

I keep my eyes squeezed shut, waiting to feel something. Anything. One tiny butterfly in my stomach, a small acceleration of my heart. _Anything_, damn it! Anything besides the panic seizing my veins, turning my blood cold.

"_Mmmpffh!_" Sam puts his hands on my shoulders and firmly pushes me away. "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" He pants a bit, catching his breath. I do the same. "What was that?" He doesn't look upset, just…curious. A bit confused.

I don't blame him; I've never come on that strong before. In fact, the furthest we've ever gone was second-base, over the bra. Our kisses have never been passionate, Harlequin-novel-worthy.

But that doesn't mean I can't change that now.

"Can't a girl kiss the man she loves?" I ask. Without waiting for an answer, I fling my arms around his neck and kiss him again, even deeper.

This time, Sam reciprocates; he wraps his arms around my waist, squeezing, pressing, our mouths and tongues intermingling.

I peel his shirt off of him and toss it to the floor. His chest is hard and rigid beneath me, like sand dunes and plains, peaks and valleys, this foreign territory for me to explore. I run my hands along his well-defined, rippling abs, but all I want is his shirt to be back on.

That familiar feeling of claustrophobia creeps into my senses, but I accept the closed-in, lungs-burning sensation. Because feeling like that is better than feeling _nothing_.

My hands travel down to the belt loops of Sam's jeans; curling my forefinger there, I use it like a reign, leading him to the couch, still kissing. I shove him down before straddling him. It feels weird being on top of him in this position, both empowering and out-of-place at the same time.

As Sam moans and kisses my neck, I hastily work at undoing the buttons of my dad's shirt. Once I have the last one undone, I whip off my shirt, send it flying across the room.

Panic tightens my chest, but a fierce determination flares through every part of my being, propelling me forward with so much momentum that I am unable to stop without breaking into a million pieces. I must keep going.

Sam pulls away from my neck and takes in the sight of me, topless; of my light pink bra with the white straps. His eyes practically pop out of his skull.

"Whoa, whoa! Quinn!" he protests, struggling to slide up into a sitting position. I press my hands against his chest, holding him at bay, and silence him with another kiss.

My fingers are clumsy, too fast, as I begin working at his belt, tugging and groping at the clasp. Tears begin to form beneath my closed eyelids, tickling against the line of my lashes.

I blink a few times, chase them away.

I trace kisses from Sam's mouth, down his square jaw, his neck, landing at his throat.

He sucks in a nervous, shallow breath; I feel the hectic bobbing of his Adam's apple beneath my mouth.

After I have his belt undone, I pause to find his hands and place them on top of my ass; he squeezes, and it's all so bizarre, this entire thing. Like I'm watching my actions from across the room as a ghost, seeing what is happening but unable to fully comprehend, unable to feel anything, be it emotionally or even physically.

I make sure to keep kissing at his mouth, silencing his weak, half-hearted protests.

He's not really taking any initiative here, so I unbutton and unzip my mini-skirt; I have to use both of my hands for this and move into a straighter position, tugging the denim material down my hips. This is a mistake; I have left Sam enabled to take a deep breath, move enough away from me, and actually _think_.

No, no. Thinking is not good.

"Quinn!" he says. It's a shout, a reprimand. "Stop!"

I freeze, my skirt half down my thighs, the top of my light pink panties exposed. "Why?" I'm aware of how thin and pathetic my voice is. Where's HBIC Quinn when I need her?

"This is going too fast," he says, maneuvering out from under me and scooting onto the opposite end of the couch. It's not a long couch though, so there's only about six inches of space between us. He takes another deep breath and starts fixing his belt.

"I don't understand," I say, my heart slamming against my chest. The inside of my stomach is coated with ice. "Don't you want me? Don't you want our first time to be together?"

Sam gets up and retrieves his shirt, then mine; he tosses me the button-down before he pulls his simple gray tee back over his head.

"Quinn, you know I love you," he says gently, looking respectfully away while I shimmy back up my skirt and fasten it, and throw my dad's shirt on, arranging the buttons as quickly as my shaking fingers will allow. "But we agreed to wait until marriage before having sex. I don't want to throw that away; you mean too much to me."

My lower lip quivers; my nostrils flare rapidly. No way in _hell_ am I going to start crying again.

I am so embarrassed; my face is bright red and hot, and I just want to get out of here. I want to crawl into a dark, secluded space – claustrophobia be damned! – and curl up and cry for a thousand years and then sleep for a thousand more.

And then, like that, a switch in me is flicked; I am done with playing the victim. Righteous anger sears my flesh inside-out.

"How _dare_ you!" I scream, jumping up and swinging my purse so violently over my shoulder that it whacks me in the face before colliding against my hip. I ignore this added embarrassment and start marching to the door. "It's _my_ body, Sam! I know when I'm ready, and I'm ready now. I love you, and I want to be with you, and I don't think that's too much to ask. So what gives you the right to reject me?"

Sam runs, sliding to a stop between me and the door. I look pointedly to the side, my arms crossed over my heaving heart.

"Where is this coming from?" he asks, desperation coloring his voice as his big hands rest gingerly on top of my shoulders. "This isn't you! Please don't be mad at me, Quinn. You're right; it is your body, but it's mine involved in this situation, too, so if we're both not into it, then it shouldn't happen." He tries to guide my eyes back to his by setting his fingers against my chin and directing my face to align with his; I jerk away, refusing to make eye-contact.

"I love you, Quinn, but I think it's best if we wait," he says, trying again to lead my eyes to his with his fingers on my chin. "Hey, hey; look at me. Please."

I finally do, and the pain and confusion shining in Sam's sea-blue eyes makes me hate myself. But then, it makes me pissed off. Where does he get off making me feel guilty? I am _sick and tired_ of always feeling guilty.

"Sam, please move," I say as calmly as possible, looking him straight in the eye. Wondering what he sees. Wondering if he sees someone who is afraid, someone who is 'a shell of a person,' like Rachel said.

"_Quinn_." It's a beg, a plea.

"Move," I say, more firmly this time.

"I'm not letting you leave until we've talked this over," Sam says, stubborn as always.

"Get. Away. From. The door," I hiss through clenched teeth, each word angry and purposeful. I want nothing more than to get _out_ of this house right now; it's getting harder to breathe, and my nerves feel fried, like I'm short-circuiting.

"Quinn, come on, be reasonable," he begs, trying to take my hands within his own.

And that's it. That does it. Something inside of me snaps, clean in half, and I feel a dam of anger burst.

"Get the fuck away from the damn door!" I scream, a flood of tears gushing against the back of my eyelids, threatening to stream over. Using all of my strength, I shove my hip against Sam's, knocking him out of the way, and make my exit, dashing out of the door, not even bothering to close it behind me.

I run, setting pounding foot in front of pounding foot, to my car parked beside the curb, as tears run down my face, washing away the last of my mascara.

Sam calls after me, but I'm already jumping into my car, slamming the door, buckling up, starting the ignition.

He starts to sprint after me, calling my name, his shouts sounding muffled and far away as my engine drowns him out.

But it's no use for him – he's halfway to my car, but I'm already peeling away, foot hitting the gas pedal.

I watch in the rearview mirror as I leave him behind, watch as he shrinks and shrinks, until he is a speck, an ant, and then nothing at all.

* * *

><p>After about ten minutes of aimless driving, in which I almost run two Stop signs, I pull over and take a few minutes to collect myself.<p>

Sam has called at least a dozen times; I silence my cell phone's ringer and stuff the blasted thing down into the bottom of my purse.

I take a deep breath and sink my head into my hands, trying desperately to think about what to do next, how to move forward from this latest disaster.

I need to go somewhere; I can't keep driving around when my focus is all over the place.

Quickly, I consider my options.

Santana is out of the question, partly because she lives the furthest away of all my friends. Plus, I don't want to have to deal with her ghetto neighborhood right now – that's just added stress. But, most importantly, I can't go to her about this because Santana doesn't do very well with keeping secrets (unless they're her own or Brittany's). She's the type of person who, if – or rather _when_ – her temper flares up and gets the best of her in an argument, she'll throw whatever she can back in your face, not afraid to play dirty so long as she gets the last word in.

And Brittany…I love her, I really do, she's a sweet-hearted person, but…I don't want to have to deal with her glib comments. She'll just confuse me even more. Also, she'll tell Santana everything I tell her…hell, she's probably with Santana right now anyway.

I realize that I don't really have that many friends. None that count, anyway. Sure, all of the people in Glee Club have my back when it comes down to it, but the truth is, they are comprised of a mostly gossipy, loose-lipped bunch. You tell one person in Glee, you might as well tell them all.

Suddenly, _her_ face flashes into my mind – her caring eyes, her consoling hugs, the fact that she has been proven to keep secrets before. But she is the _last_ person I can go to now, or ever.

Honestly, when I think about it, there's really only one person I know who never tells secrets, who doesn't even gossip, who brushes away rumors with rolling eyes and a flick of the hand.

The only person I know will always be there for me, not for personal benefit, but for the sake of being a good, caring friend.

Who, even though I don't hang out with that often, I know I can always turn to.

Who is in no place to ever judge me, considering their past is far shadier.

Brushing away some freshly fallen tears, I hang a right at the next intersection, knowing just where I need to go.

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><p><em>Who do you think it'll be? <em>:)


	12. Chapter 12

Thank you so much to everyone who is showing support for this story. I am loving that you are loving it. :D And to those who guessed who Quinn is visiting in this chapter... The answer shall be revealed! Congrats to those who got it right. I feel like I should be giving out door prizes or something. ;) Anyway, I hope you enjoy; remember, reviews are love! If I get a good enough response, I may even be able to put up the next chapter today.

By the way, I changed the story summary. Do you like this one better, or the old one? Let me know. :)

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><p><strong>CHAPTER TWELVE<strong>

"Quinn! I haven't seen you in forever! ... Oh no. Are you okay?"

Even though I am no longer physically crying, I know my eyes are red, my skin is blotchy, and my mouth sags like a popped, defeated balloon.

"Hi, honey," I say, twisting my lips up in a smile as I kneel down to be eye-level with the petite young girl. "How have you been? I love your sweater. Is your brother home?"

Puck's ten-year-old sister, Abigail, blinks back at me from her big brown eyes with impossibly long lashes. The boys (or girls) better watch out when she gets older, let me tell you.

"Thank you," she says, running her fingers over the delicate flower pattern of her sweater. "I've been good. Noah is in his room."

She offers her tiny hand, and I take it, my smile small but actually genuine as she skips down the hall, pulling me along with her.

I look around as I amble through Puck's small, cozy home. The carpeting is worn-down beneath my feet, slightly stained. The walls have a few tapestries hung up, depicting different excerpts from the Torah. Those are the only marks of sentimentality. Other than that, the house is almost bare. There are no photographs of the family. Nothing to show that the house has any sort of attachment to the people living here.

Abigail stops at Puck's bedroom. "My mommy isn't home," she says, suddenly sounding shy. "I don't think Noah is allowed to have girls inside his room when she isn't here."

"Yes, but I'm not just any girl, sweetie," I remind her, patting her on the back of her hand as I pull away. "I'm Puck's good friend. I used to come over here all the time, remember?"

She nods. "Okay." She starts to walk off, but surprises me by suddenly darting her arms around my waist in a quick, tight hug, before running off down the hall.

I smile after her, affection warming my heart. Puck may have a deadbeat dad and a mom who works too often to ever be around and be supportive in any way other than monetarily, but his sister is the sunshine that keeps his life filled with purpose.

Taking a deep breath and smoothing my hands over my hair one last time, I turn to face Puck's room. Everything about it is so familiar, from the red-and-black 'WARNING: A Rebel Lives Here' plaque on the door, to the sloppily-scribbled-on-notebook-paper sign 'KNOCK FIRST! ... OR ELSE' that is taped right above the doorknob.

I oblige the paper, rapping my knuckles to the wood, one, two, three.

A few seconds later, the door pops open, just enough to reveal Puck's head and upper torso. I am relieved that he is still wearing his plain white T-shirt from school, because I don't think I could handle seeing another topless guy tonight. And Puck has been known to lounge around his house in just his boxer shorts.

When Puck looks at me, his half-mast, sleepy eyes fly wide open. His lips drop apart for a few seconds, then snap closed.

"Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to let me in?"

Wordlessly, he stands aside and opens the door, nice and wide. I slip through, ignoring the way he's now staring at me with unveiled worry, as if I'm something that is so fragile that I may break apart at any second, shattering into pieces at the wrong word, wrong glance.

He shuts the door behind me with a soft _click_. I have to pass through dirty clothes scattered on the floor, containers of food (some empty, some half-full), and abandoned homework worksheets before making it to his bed, its plaid covers undone and the single white pillow lying askew.

I sit on the edge of his bed; the mattress squeaks. I look around Puck's room while he rummages in his mini-fridge.

I used to come here all the time, sophomore year. Back when I was dating Finn. He and Puck were best friends – still kind of are, I guess – and Finn would go to Puck's house at least twice a week, usually inviting me to go with him; I usually accepted. And sometimes, I would come over without Finn, letting my worries be numbed by watching Puck master the next level on his videogame of the week.

It's just like I remembered it: there's the posters of _Sports Illustrated_ swimsuit edition adorning his blue walls; the clock with the hands on it shaped like beer mugs; the pool cleaning supplies leaning against his closet, the area around them kept tidy and neat.

It's a stereotypical teenage boy's room, take it or leave it.

Puck holds up an amber bottle from the mini-fridge. "Want a drink?"

"That beer better be made entirely of root," I say.

Puck looks over his shoulder, flashing me his toothy, devilish grin. He turns the front of the bottle toward me, displaying the 'A&W' label on it. "Of course."

"Fine then. Thanks."

A few moments later and Puck is sitting across from me on his desk chair, popping open his root beer while I hold mine awkwardly between tight hands. The glass of the bottle is chilled and frosty, already starting to sweat against my palms.

Puck leans forward, elbows resting atop the ripped knees of his jeans. "So," he says, lifting his eyebrows. "Spill."

I bite down on my lip, turn my eyes to the floor; they land on a pair of dark red boxer shirts. _Ick_ – that forces me to look right back up at him.

My lips open, words try to form, but get stuck in my throat, to the roof of my mouth, thick and heavy as peanut butter. I'm afraid I'll start crying again, even though my eyes are dry.

"I…I…"

Puck waits patiently, staring softly into my eyes, his head cocked ever-so-slightly to the left.

"I…I…" _WORDS, Fabray! Use your WORDS!_

To his credit, Puck doesn't rush me. Simply, he waits, without an impatient tic anywhere to be found.

"I was…I just…" I can't do it; I can't bring myself to say that I kissed Rachel. That I like girls. Not boys. That I was at Sam's, and I threw myself at him, and we got into a fight. None of it. It's like my brain is a car with a stalled engine (being in such a testosterone-driven room must be what inspired that particular analogy).

"Quinn," Puck says, tone gentle but firm. "It's okay. Just say it."

My fingers fiddle with the label on my root beer bottle; I take a deep breath.

_Rip off the Band-Aid, Quinn. Just get it over with and deal with the pain. DO IT!_

"Look, you know I don't do well with mushy-gushy feelings-talk, but you're my friend, and if you need to tell – "

"I like girls," I blurt out, clean interrupting him.

" – me anythi...ng… Oh… Um… What?"

There are rocks in my stomach; my heart is racing; but there's no going back now. I twirl the bottle of root beer between my palms, staring at it as it spins 'round and 'round, knowing just how it feels.

"I like girls, Puck," I say, so softly that I don't know if it's even intelligible, "in the way that I should like guys."

It's silent for a long, long time – in enough time for countries to be made, paint to dry, a snail to win a race. I keep staring at the bottle and playing with it: my anchor to reality, to this bedroom.

"You mean... you're a _lesbian?_"

It's so abrupt, and uttered in so much shock, that my eyes jerk to his as if he yanked them up by a string. I give one long, slow nod, watching as he works through a mixture of emotions; the dominant one seems to be surprise, plain and simple.

Finally, he says, "Oh."

And I oh-so-wisely return with, "Yeah."

"When?" he asks.

"'When' what?"

"When did you find out," he clarifies, "that you like girls."

And it's because his tone is more caring than curious, and because his facial features and his posture have arranged into a determined sort of nonchalance, that I can tell it's going to be all right.

Me talking about this with Puck, exposing the soft, scarred underbelly of my most hidden secrets, and stripping down to the most naked of vulnerabilities – it's all going to be okay, because he's already switching into his Accepting and Loving Friend mode. The part of him that I love best. The one that shows me there is more to him than meets the eye.

It's like some of the weight has been lifted from my shoulders; my breaths are a bit lighter, my heartbeat suiting a more regular pattern. The rocks in my stomach have been replaced with mere pebbles.

"Ever since I can remember," I say, nibbling on my lower lip. "My first crush was on a classmate in _Kindergarten_. This girl who always wore bright red ribbons in her pigtails. I can't remember ever having a crush on a guy."

Puck nods, prompting me to continue.

"It's why I quit the Cheerios, you know," I say, even though he couldn't have. "It was too much, getting dressed with all of those girls, some walking around practically naked. I hated that…I hated that I…_looked_ at them. I didn't _want_ to, so I…removed myself from the situation."

"I always just thought you quit because you were tired of Coach Sylvester's batshit craziness."

"Yeah, well, that too," I laugh a little, smirking. But the brief humor quickly fizzles out. "It was my cover story. I still miss the Cheerios sometimes. And not just for the popularity benefits, like you're probably assuming. I genuinely enjoyed – no, _enjoy_ – cheerleading, the sport and competition of it all. I miss the feeling I'd get after nailing a super difficult routine, and Coach would grace me with one of her rare compliments."

Puck sets his drink down and holds his hand out for mine; seeing as how I have no real thirst or appetite, I give it to him, and he puts that down, too.

"It's not as bad as you think," he says.

"What?"

"Being gay."

I snort and roll my eyes. "Yeah, and you would know?"

"No," he says, eyes more serious than I've ever seen them. "But Kurt and Blaine do. And so does Santana, and sort of Brittany. And they're all, like, really happy with their love lives."

"Yeah, well, they're different."

"How?"

"They just are, okay?" Oh God, not again; here come more tears, stinging my eyes like salt to an open sore. "They don't have to worry about their religion or their parents or being _wrong_ with their life. They can just _be_."

Puck shakes his head, a frown tugging at his mouth. "That's not true. Santana's grandmother abandoned her when she found out, remember? They haven't talked in _months_."

"Gee, thanks, Puck!" I say, my chin quivering. I flick my eyes to the ceiling, willing my tears to go away. "Make me feel even worse."

"Hey, hey, hey," he says, quickly swinging himself off of his chair and onto his bed, scooting close enough that our thighs almost touch. He rests his hand on my shoulder and searches imploring eyes into mine. "I'm not the bad guy here. I want to help you. I want you to know you have nothing to be ashamed of."

And _that_ does it – his caring touch, his affectionate words spoken with such assurance and earnestness; my eyes squeeze shut of their own accord and cold tears fall over, tracing a familiar path, dangling from my chin before splashing onto my bare knees.

I feel Puck's arm sliding around my shoulders; he draws me into his side as his other arm circles around my front, holding me against him.

I turn into him, my face pressing against his shoulder, catching a whiff of his subtle, boyish cologne. His comforting scent wraps around my senses like a warm blanket.

Thankfully, I do not cry long, and I do not cry hard; after a few minutes, I pull away, wiping at my face and giggling just a little bit at how pathetic I am.

Puck surprises me by kissing the side of my head, lips pressing a quick seal of affection to my temple.

"There's more," I say.

He nudges his fingers between mine and gives my hand a squeeze before releasing, his raised eyebrow saying, 'Go on.'

"I kissed Rachel."

Puck's eyes pop, his neck shoots back, his mouth drops open. "I think I need to get my ears checked, because I could have _sworn_ you just said that you kissed Rachel, when we both know that no way in _hell_ would that ever happen."

"Well, Puck, there's been a snowstorm in hell, pigs have flown all the way to Mars, and all the other clichés you can think of have come true, because I did kiss her."

"Would you totally hate me forever if I maybe-kind-of laughed right now?"

"Puuuuuuck," I warn.

But his shoulders are shaking up and down, and his hands are clapped over his mouth, and he is _totally _laughing right now.

And damn it all to hell if I can't manage a proper glare at him because I'm too busy laughing, too.

"It's not funny!" I insist, the effectiveness of my words lost on the wave of giggles they're riding.

"You're right; it's totally not," he says, laughing harder.

I slug him on the arm. "No_ah!_ Cut it _out!_"

"_Owww!_"

"Baby," I scoff.

He makes a funny face; my resolve wavers as I chuckle.

"So…" he says, all business again. "You kissed Rachel…a few more details would be nice to help me understand what was going through your mind. And by 'a few more details,' I mean, 'enough to write a fucking _novel_.'"

I roll my eyes, blushing from head to toe. "It's not that big of a deal, really."

"Yeah, just like the _Titanic_ was a tugboat."

"Exaggeration," I counter.

"_Elab_oration," he persists.

"_Ugh._ All right…it was after the performance. I was feeling…really confused. And she was standing so close to me. And she smelled good – you know how she smells so good all the time, like lavender and vanilla. I just…lost control. And if you even so much as make a _cough_ that sounds like laughter, I will waste no time in ripping out your Mohawk and storming out the door."

Puck holds up his hands. "Hey, I'm not laughing. I've been down that road before with Berry, remember? She can be annoying as hell, but she's also weirdly irresistible. And a damn good kisser." A smirk dances upon his lips; the flicker of nostalgia flitting through his eyes tells me that he's not smirking at my expense, but rather at a fond memory.

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't know," I say after an awkward beat. "She kind of, uh, she kind of pushed me off of her and onto the ground."

Puck's eyebrows soar, and for a second, his inner Casanova pops up. "Ooh, onto the ground, huh?"

"_Puck!_"

"Sorry, sorry," he says, and only because I can tell that he means it do I not punch him on the arm. I should anyway, for good measure.

"So she rejected you," he says. His tone makes it clear it's not a question.

"Yep."

"But you're Quinn fucking Fabray! You're seriously the hottest, most attractive girl in a hundred mile radius. You're the only girl who's ever made the Puckster feel things in his heart and not just in his dick."

I can't help but smile at that. And feel pretty flattered. Now it's my turn to grab his hand and give it a quick squeeze.

"I think you're forgetting one teeny, tiny little fact," I say. "Which is, oh, you know, that _Rachel's not gay_. She has a serious boyfriend whom she is devoted to. She's straight as a board."

Half of Puck's mouth slants upward as he shrugs. "Yeah. Can't really argue with any of those facts."

I heave a sigh that works all the way up through my body.

"Do you, like, _like_-her-_like_-her? Or did you just smooch her 'cause she was the closest thing nearby with a vagina and you were horny?"

This time, I _do_ punch him on the arm. Hard. "_Puuuhhh-uuuuuuuck!_"

"_What?_" He looks genuinely confused as he rubs at his arm. "It's a valid question! And, I repeat for the second time: _owww_."

"I was not," I lower my voice into a whisper, heat prickling the back of my neck, "horny."

He smirks at hearing me say the word. "So you really do like her, huh?"

"No!" The word jumps out too fast, too loudly. "Of course not!"

"But you _did_ kiss her," Puck points out. "So, what, are you going around macking on poor, defenseless Jewish hobbits, or was it something that's been building up toward just her?"

"It's like this," I say, taking a moment to gather my words. "I've been going through a lot lately. Battling my feelings towards girls, my lack of feelings towards Sam, who's my _boyfriend._ I'm trying to deal with the fact that my parents are totally homophobic. It's just been a ton of pressure. But when I'm with Rachel…it's like, some of that pressure goes away."

"So," I continue, "earlier, when she was so close to me, and we were arguing, it was like, I couldn't take it anymore. I had to shut up my thoughts. So I kissed her." I shrug, trying to come off as casual as possible, even though I'm pretty sure my face is redder than a ripe tomato.

And I could kiss Puck right on the mouth for sparing me further embarrassment and discomfort by swiftly segueing away from my remembered moment of insanity: "What about Sam?" he asks.

I cover my face with my hands and groan.

"What? What happened?"

I groan again in response, more anguished this time.

"That bad, huh?"

"Worse."

"Tell me." He nudges his shoulder against mine.

Slowly, I lower my hands back onto my lap and meet his eyes. "I went to his house after I kissed Rachel, and I basically threw myself on him, and when he didn't want to have sex with me, I yelled at him and ran off."

Puck sucks in a secondhand-embarrassment type of breath and cringes. "_Ooooooh_. That's…yikes, yeah, that's not good. Though I will say, if he seriously denied that kind of request from you, then I think _he_ might be the one who's gay." He winks.

I offer a small smile to show my appreciation toward his joke. "It was pretty brutal. I don't know if I can face him again. Or, God, if I can face _Rachel_ again. I think I just need to transfer schools."

"Nah, don't do that," Puck says. "Then Glee wouldn't be as fun, and my life would be boring without hearing about all of your drama."

"Okay, I'll stay just to provide you with some amusement."

"I appreciate it," he says. We share a smile.

"So, do you want to crash here tonight? I can take the couch if you want the bed," he offers.

Now I'm the one to kiss _him_ on the side of the head. "You're the best, but I can't. I actually need to be getting home, like, _now_. My parents made this big deal about a family night tonight with pizza and a movie."

"Think you'll be able to put on a brave face?"

"I've been putting on a brave face for seventeen years."

"True."

I get up, hitching my purse over my shoulder. "Thank you so much, Puck. You have no idea what this means to me." Warmth fills my system, swells my heart, as I look at him: at his Mohawk and his white T-shirt and his ripped jeans, and most importantly, at the man he is inside.

"Anytime," he says, standing up. "And if I ever need to vent…." He waves his hand through the air, shoulders hunching up, letting me fill in the rest.

"Of course," I say. "I'm all ears."

When I reach his bedroom door, I turn and say, "Puck?"

"Yeah?"

"Pleas, just…keep all of this between you and me."

He gives me a look. "Like you even have to ask."

* * *

><p>I manage to put on a brave face throughout the night, chowing down on pizza with my mom and dad, watching a pretty hilarious movie that manages to take my mind off of things, and sitting snuggled between them. I feel like they are the mama and daddy birds, and I am the egg they need to protect – a feeling that is both assuring and alarming at the same time.<p>

Later, after I've taken a hot shower to wash away the day from my hair, my body, and my senses, I change into my comfiest pajamas. Then, after I have completed the rest of my nightly beauty routine, I summon enough courage to finally check my phone.

Six missed calls (three of which have long, rambling voicemails) and three text messages from Sam.

One text from Santana, reminding me about our mani-pedis tomorrow. Well, crap, I totally forgot about that, but it's not like I can cancel, lest I want her to be mad at me and add even _more_ drama to my life.

And…there is one missed call and one text message. Both from _her_.

She didn't leave a voicemail. That would be bad enough, having to hear her voice. Reading simple words on a screen should be far more doable.

THE Rachel Berry*: **Quinn, we need to talk. As soon as you are ready.**

The problem is, Rachel, that I'm not sure if I will _ever_ be ready.

And yet…I can't bring myself to hit the 'Delete' option. Rather, I just exit back to my home screen.

I write in my diary, which takes a good hour, as I have a lot to say. Buttercup lays with her head in my lap the entire time, eventually falling asleep and snoring contentedly.

By the time I'm able to get into bed (Buttercup following after me and promptly resuming Dreamland before I've even had a chance to get under the covers), I figure that, since I am practically keeling over with exhaustion, I should be in for a night of a deep, dreamless sleep.

No such luck.

Even in my subconscious, in the furthest realm of my mind, she finds me.

A pair of bright pink lips drifts in and out, its owner pressing against me, short skirts riding up thighs.

And as pink dances with red, even in my dreams I have never felt more alive.


	13. Chapter 13

You guys! I need a big hug right now, okay? Can somebody please just give me a hug? That finale was pretty rough to get through; I was hiccup-sobbing at the end. :'(

Remember: don't stop believing!

(And by the way, thank you SOOOOO much to all of those who reviewed or showed support in any way. :D You guys ROCK!)

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><p><strong>CHAPTER THIRTEEN<strong>

_Just relax, Quinn. Relaaaxxxx._

I inhale deeply, exhale slowly. Through the diaphragm. Eyes closed, I lean back in the comfy massage chair and absorb the warmth from its attached heating pad.

To my left, water trickles over a fountain, this rhythmic _shish-shish-shish_; to my right, the occasional contented breath or blissful sigh issues from Santana or Brittany.

I'm glad I didn't bail on mani-pedis today. It turns out this is just what I needed to help reduce my stress.

A trained masseuse works away at my aching feet, up my calves, back down again to my soles. Lathering my skin with creamy, cool lotion that smells wonderfully of light peaches, fresh pears.

"This is the life," Santana says.

"Uh-huh," Brittany says, and I can _hear_ the satisfied grin in her voice.

Amazingly, I am too relaxed to respond.

"Your muscles like rubber band," says the cute Asian girl rubbing my feet. "I get out tension for you."

I nod my thanks, hoping she sees it; words are too heavy to drop from my mouth right now. I just want to float away, up through the ceiling, into the sky, forever.

* * *

><p>Forty minutes later and my fingernails and toenails are painted a glamorous, shiny coral-pink, complete with white tropical flowers on my big toes and thumbs.<p>

"Ooh, that looks so pretty, Quinn," Brittany says. She holds out her own hands to me; each nail is a different color, a different vivid shade of the rainbow. It completely suits her.

"I like yours, too," I say, smiling.

"But of course, _mine_ is the best," Santana says in a joking tone, even though I am positive she isn't really joking at all. She shows off her dark, blood-red nails, daring and bold and totally Santana.

"Fabulous," I say.

We pay for our respective treatments and head outside to the parking lot. The late February air is chilly and crisp; I can't wait until March finally rolls into place with its warm weather, calm spring showers, and flowers popping up like the earth's own rainbow freckles.

"So, Q," Santana says when we pile into my car. She and Brittany snuggle up in the back (of course), leaving me by myself in the front. "What's with you today?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, starting the car and adjusting the rearview mirror. I lower it too far, catching a glimpse of her and Brittany holding hands and playing with each other's fingers, before setting it back to the correct angle.

"You've been quiet, spacey, and you didn't laugh at my joke about the Egyptian drag queen. _Everybody_ laughs at that joke; it's failproof. So, either something's bugging you, or you're on your period. And since you skipped on the hot chocolate the nail-Asians offered you, I know it can't be that, 'cause we know how your sugar cravings get when you're on that crazy time of the month."

I have to hand it to Santana; you can say a _lot_ of things about her – believe me, a _lot_ of things – but one adjective you can't peg her as is unobservant.

"I'm fine," I say.

Apparently unconvincingly, since Santana replies with the ever-sophisticated: "Bull. Shit."

I back out of the parking lot and turn onto the main road, issuing a sigh from deep within. I can't come clean to my friends about what's really going on with me; not just yet. _Maybe_ eventually, but it's all too fresh right now. So I figure I'll give them a condensed version of the truth.

"Sam and I are in a fight."

"Oh _no!_" Brittany says. "I'm so sorry, Quinn."

"It's really not that big of a deal."

"If your perma-sweet boyfriend is being enough of an asshole to make you angry toward him, then yes, I would say that's a big deal," Santana says.

I flick on a turn signal, check my mirrors and blind spot, change lanes, and flick off the turn signal. That amount of time is short, but enough for me to formulate a believable response.

"We're having some differences of opinion regarding sex."

"As in, he wants it but you're still too much of a prude to put out?" Santana asks in her wise, I-know-everything tone. The grating, superior one that never fails to temporarily make me hate her.

"Santana," Brittany scolds, "quit being mean. You asked Quinn what's bothering her, and when she tries to confide in us, you insult her."

Despite this entire awkward situation, a smile tugs at my lips. Gotta love Brittany.

"Fine," Santana huffs, but with far less attitude than she directs towards anyone else. Then, to me, she says, "All right, so you and Trouty Mouth are having problems. Is he trying to pressure you into doing anything you don't want to do? 'Cause if that's the case, I have no reservations about strangling him with a condom to show him that's what he gets for only thinking with his dick."

"God, Santana!" My outraged sound can't help but to contain some disbelieving laughter in it. You'd think I'd be used to her crass language and crude imagery, but no, she's always finding new ways to surprise me and one-up herself. "Gee, thanks, now I'm going to have that emblazoned on the back of my eyelids. And, anyway, _I'm_ the one who wanted to have sex yesterday after school; _he_ rejected _me._"

It's silent for a few long, _long_ seconds; I don't think my two Chatty Kathy friends have ever been speechless before. (Well, thank God for small miracles, I guess.)

And then, a torrent of Teenage Girl Gossip Babble:

"OhmyGod, Quinn, you _what? _Are you _serious?_"

"I can't believe it, but I'm actually proud of you. Way to do something remotely badass for once!"

"Why do you suddenly want to do it with him? I thought you were going to wait until marriage."

"Oh, screw marriage, Britt! You only live once, right? And what's living if you never even get to experience the proper meaning of pleasu – "

"Oh my God!" I shriek, effectively interrupting them. Particularly Santana's remark. This conversation needed to end, like, _yesterday._ "Can you guys please stop before I cause a wreck?"

"Sorry, Quinn," Brittany says.

"So, why did he turn you down?" Santana asks. "If I were him, I'd be dying to find out if you're a natural blonde. So many are bottled nowadays."

I could slap her right now. I really could.

"I'm obviously a natural blonde, Santana," I say, feeling the need to defend my God-given hair color before proceeding. "Anyway, Sam wants to wait until marriage; he stone-cold rejected me, and I got mad, and I yelled, and now I'm not speaking to him."

"Damn, Q; that's harsh. Even for the SBIC."

"'_S_BIC?'"

"Yeah. The 'second bitch in charge.' 'Cause I'm obviously the '_head_ bitch in charge.'"

"But what about me?" Brittany asks. "Why am I not second? Or tied for first?"

"Britt, you aren't a bitch," says Santana, less matter-of-factly and more affectionately.

"Well, _duh,_" Brittany says. I can hear the eye-roll in her voice. "Technically speaking, bitches are female dogs, Santana, so _none_ of us could ever be real bitches," she says, tone serious.

"Girl has a point," says Santana.

"Yep," I say, hoping that they'll forget why exactly she made her point in the first place.

But of course, Santana jumps right back in: "So, you asked Sam if you could jump his sweet, nerdtastic bones, and he said no. You got pissed off and stormed out, and now you're fighting. Correct?"

"Pretty much."

"I don't get why you're so mad at him. You both want to wait until you're married, right? Sam was practically defending your honor. He should be rewarded with some shining Chastity Medal or a key to the city from the mayor; he was…_noble_." She says the word with the shuddering kind of revulsion one usually reserves when discussing oozing sores or ripe pimples.

I stop at a red light and take the opportunity to run a hand through my hair. "Can we just drop it? Not to sound rude, but it's really none of your business, and I'm already tired of talking about this."

"None of our business?" Santana says, and she actually sounds…hurt. "Quinn, we're your best friends!"

"The Unholy Trinity," Brittany reminds me.

"If your situation is anyone else's business besides yourself and Trouty Mouth, it's _ours_. We've been there with you through all your tiny little dramas and day-to-day gripes; we have a damned _right_ to know the actual juicy parts of your life."

The light turns green; I accelerate on the gas pedal. I cock one eyebrow, hoping they can see it in the rearview mirror. "I think there was kind of a sentimental statement in there, but it was buried beneath too many layers of your confusing Santana Speak. It's like you have this weird foreign language that only you and Brittany understand."

"Even I don't understand it sometimes," says Brittany. "But, sometimes I don't understand English that good, either… Or even Lord Tubbington when he's talking too fast or mumbling."

"Look, Q, my point is, we're your girls. You can say things to us. Okay?"

"Okay."

"So, tell me, how far were you able to get before Blondie Boy called it off? You guys have barely even touched the bases before; you're like the benchwarmers dying for play but too nervous to get off their sweaty asses and give it a go. Were you able to at least hit the _real_ second this time?"

"Santana!" I say.

"What? If you expect me to help you work this out, I'm going to need to know the skinny. Speaking of skinny, is Sam a boxers or a briefs type of guy?"

"Mr. Schue carries a briefcase," says Brittany.

"No, I mean the underwear kind."

Okay, that's it; I turn on the radio and crank up the volume. Even annoying-as-hello techno-dance pop tunes is better than hearing _that_.

* * *

><p>Two hours later and I'm back at home, by myself, lounging on my bed. I watch some TV while petting Buttercup, trying to not let myself <em>think<em>.

My phone vibrates beside me; I groan, figuring it's probably Sam, who texted me twice today already. He is _persistent,_ let me tell you.

My whole world stops when I check the screen.

It's _her_.

Somehow, seeing her name pop up on my phone today is ten times worse than it was when she texted me yesterday.

Yesterday, I was so emotionally drained and exhausted that I didn't really register that it was _Rachel_, the girl whom I _kissed_. But now…yeah, now I'm registering that fact like a sack of bricks falling on top of my head. Or a giant cartoon piano, making my body fold into an accordion and spring up and down, up and down.

I don't want to see what she has to say. I really don't.

But the 'what if?' will rip me apart; I'll spend all day wondering. Curiosity will kill the Quinn.

My fingers shake as I hit the 'Okay' button; my entire _body_ shakes as I read the message, making the words appear blurry before my eyes.

THE Rachel Berry*: **I understand that you no doubt need some time to yourself following the incident. However, I believe it to be beneficial if we discussed these matters like the young adults we are.**

I'm just recovering from the shock and stomach-cramps-inducing memories the first text inflicts, when my phone buzzes again.

**Call me, text me, Facebook message me – anything.**

Yeah, fat chance with that.

_Bzzzzzz_.

**Please.**

The simplicity of it, the quiet determination – I'm a goner. It's the texting equivalent of her batting those long lashes at me and puppy-dog-pouting her lower lip.

But I _can't_ call her or text her or any of that stuff. If I had more guts than I do, if I was a better and more mature person, you can be sure I would. Hell, I'd even go so far as to hire one of those planes to write a message in the sky.

But since I am apparently a coward who avoids issues and would prefer to stay safely in my bedroom forever, curled up with my doggie and watching old sitcoms, I push my phone away from me and sit on my twitching fingers.

* * *

><p>Thirty minutes later, the doorbell rings.<p>

Thirty seconds after that, and my mom calls up: "Quinn? Somebody's here to see you."

It's gotta be Puck, come to check on me. Santana and Brittany ditched me for a date, and there's no one else it could be.

Oh, God….

Unless it's Sam.

Panic shoots through me, hot and fast and suffocating; I make myself take deep breaths and tell myself to suck it up and act like a 'young adult' for once.

"I'll be right there," I call back to my mom.

I exit my room, Buttercup following right at my heels, and descend the staircase, praying that it's just Puck, or some weirdly personal Girl Scout, or the Grim Reaper trying to take away my soul.

You know, any of those pleasant options besides Sam, the boy I made a complete and total ass of myself in front of. My unfair anger toward him is turning more and more into downright humiliation by the second.

But when I reach the front entrance hall and my eyes fall upon the opened door, I freeze right in my tracks. Nothing could have prepared me for who is actually standing there, right next to my mother (who is wearing a pinched expression and glaring at me like this is all _my_ fault).

"H-hello, Rachel."

"Hello, Quinn."

Um, hi? Grim Reaper? Yeah, it's me, Quinn. Why the hell are you not here when I need you?


	14. Chapter 14

Whoo-hoo! School's out for summer! :D At least, it is for me. Hopefully that means I can work on this and update it often.

Thanks again to everyone. Remember, reviews encourage me to update faster, and they fuel more inspiration to my writing. :)

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER FOURTEEN<strong>

I don't even know _why _I'm so shocked at her being here; she is _Rachel_, after all. If persistency was an Olympic sport, she would take home every single frigging gold medal, and the giant trophy, and all the blue ribbons, or however the scoring system works.

I can only stare at her like a complete idiot, my mouth gaping open like a fish. My body is a rigid board; I stare at her out of wide, deer-caught-in-the-headlight eyes.

Of course, she has to look absolutely adorable. It's insult to injury, as the world would have it.

She wears a simple white, knee-length dress with short-sleeves and a square neckline. Her hair is set in two low, long ponytails draping over the front of her delicate shoulders. Each ponytail is tied with bright red ribbons. She wears less make-up than usual, but that only adds to her angelic look.

"Would you like to go for a walk?" Rachel asks, widening her eyes meaningfully and tilting her head to the left.

Her words trigger me out of my hypnosis; my mouth snaps closed so fast that my teeth make a clicking noise.

I clear my throat and adjust my cherry-red headband. I rip my eyes away from Rachel, then shoot a nod and a 'please don't argue' expression at my mom. "We won't be gone long."

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose with her fingertips. "Just be back before your father gets home. That leaves you about an hour. I don't want to have to explain that you're with someone whom he specifically forbade you from hanging out with." Mom cuts steely eyes first at me, then at Rachel, before sighing again and striding into the living room.

I duck my gaze down to the floor as I lead the way out of my house, not daring to make eye-contact with Rachel just yet. She walks beside me, leaving at least a respectable arm's length, as we stroll down the sidewalk, destination unknown.

We walk for half a block, the silence thick and choking as smoke from a forest fire, before one of us finally gathers the will to speak. Unsurprisingly, it's Rachel.

"I like your nails," she says. "Did you get them done?"

"Oh," I look down at my hands, which, unbeknownst to me, have been clutching my black velvet blazer around my middle. Tightly, as if it's my lifejacket, and I'm on a canoe amidst a raging sea. "Yeah. I did. With Santana and, um, Brittany? Thanks."

I wonder how she can wear a short-sleeve dress with no tights and not be shivering all over with goosebumps right now. Because I certainly am, and I'm wearing the aforementioned blazer over a red cotton T-shirt and gray skinny jeans. The previously-cool late-February air now feels _freezing _to me, as if an arctic wind is flowing through my veins.

Of course, that could all very well be because I am a nervous wreck.

It's silent for a few more minutes; we reach the end of the sidewalk.

This time, I'm the one who speaks.

My throat is dry as sandpaper, lacking any sort of saliva whatsoever, but somehow I manage to croak out: "Um, d-do you wanna...Do you want to go t-to the park?" _Smooth, Fabray. Real smooth._

I risk a glance at her and see that she's smiling softly. "Sure," she says. "That sounds like a very nice location for our chat."

'For our chat.' As if we're going to be pleasantly discussing the weather and latest in politics whilst eating crumpets and drinking tea beside a fireplace in the library. _Not_ as if I'm about to have to dive head-first into what is surely to be _the_ most awkward and embarrassing conversation of my entire life. Yep, totally, just a little 'chat.'

I lead the way to the park, which is only a few streets away. It's eerie how _quiet_ Rachel is. Miss Blabberbox McMouthpiece can usually not be shut up, even with a (knowing her, _rhinestoned_) muzzle. But for five solid minutes, maybe even more, she is silent. The only noises around us are the occasional birdcall, car passing by, and the rhythmic _thuds_ of our footsteps striking the pavement, matching each other stride-for-stride.

It's a miracle that there is no one else at the park on such a beautiful, sunny day. I sit down on the bench between the water fountain and jungle gym. I remember coming here as a kid; my dad would hold me up by the legs as I did the monkey bars, essentially doing them for me: all I had to do was keep my arms up, touching the bars as he walked me forward.

Rachel sits down to my left, leaving about half a foot between us. She turns her whole body toward mine, crosses her ankles, and folds her hands in her lap. I sit staring straight ahead, but after a few more awkward-silence moments, I begrudgingly turn to face her.

I stare down at my lap, watching as my fingers fiddle with one other; it's as if they're tiny kittens playing with balls of yarn, and I'm aware this is a really freaking weird analogy, but thinking about cute little kittens is helping to calm my racing heart, okay?

"So...some weather we have, huh?" I mumble, still staring down at my twisting fingers. I am lamer than lame. Somebody please shoot me now.

"Quinn?" Rachel's tone is gentle. Prompting. "Let's not beat around the bush anymore, okay?"

I nod.

"Quinn? You might want to actually look at me. Maybe then you won't be so unnecessarily intimidated, and you will see that I am on your side."

Top teeth sinking onto my bottom lip, I force myself to lift my neck and lock eyes with her. Amber-brown blinks back at me – the edges of skin around her eyes are softened, and the irises are illuminated by the day's gentle sunlight.

I nibble upon my lip, trying not to pass out as my heart slams faster and faster. My stomach is filled with angry, biting ants that are attacking my intestines.

I am so distracted with darting my eyes into hers, then over her head, and then back to her eyes again that I don't see her hands slipping on top of mine; rather, I feel them.

One minute, my hands are wringing each other like wet rags, and the next, they are stilled by a pair of smaller, warmer ones.

I jerk backward, surprised by her touch; reflexively, I start to yank my hands away, but her fingers curl around mine, holding steadfast.

"Quinn," she says, so quietly that it's almost a whisper, almost carried away completely on the afternoon breeze. "Quinn, please look at me, okay?"

I take an embarrassingly loud breath and make myself maintain eye-contact with her. My whole body is tense as piano chords; my hands are stiff within hers, and I am sure that mine must be clammy and cold. I wonder why she doesn't just pull away… And yet I am relieved that she doesn't.

"Rachel." Panic chokes my vocal chords; her name comes out high-pitched and breathy.

My words tumble from my lips in a fierce whisper; my hands grip hers and clench against her knuckles as if she is my lifeline.

"Please! Just forget about it. We can just pretend like I didn't…like it didn't happen, okay? We can still be friends. I want us t-to be friends at least, just please...Oh, God..." A strangled gasp interrupts my crazy babbling.

My eyes squeeze shut; I am _not _going to have a nervous breakdown. Especially not in a public park, a place so innocent and childhood-like – that should be illegal.

"Hey, hey, hey," she says. "_Shhhh_. It's okay. Take a deep breath. It's okay."

I draw in a deep, shuddering breath, and let it out slowly. My eyes flutter open, connecting with hers.

"I kissed you," I say. _Um, duh, Quinn. She was kind of there for that part, remember?_

Rachel nods, expression equal parts serious and concerned. "You did."

"And you're not freaking out..."

"Rachel Barbra Berry does not freak out. Unless it's over Broadway, of course."

"Rachel, you're a diva; 'freaking out' is your default setting."

"Okay, _maybe_ I did do some ample amounts of 'freaking out' yesterday. _Maybe_ you could even say I cashed in my platinum-gold 'Drama Queen' membership card for all it's worth."

"That sounds much more likely."

"You crack a grin now, Quinn, but I'll have you know, even my drama queen flare-ups are comprised with the utmost poise and grace. Anyway, this conversation isn't about me – it's supposed to be about _you_. And how you…kissed me."

Blood rushes to my face; my lips give a sudden throb, tingles shooting along every dip and crevice of my mouth as the memory surges through my mind, my veins, through every part of my body.

Her face is red, too. I wonder whose is brighter; mine certainly feels like the warmest blush in all the lands. Is that even something to brag about? Or is it one of those 'the winner is actually the loser' type of things?

"Yeah…I did," I say, the tightest and tiniest of grins puckering up the corners of my mouth. "Um, sorry about that…. I kind of just…attacked you. With my mouth. Sorry."

"Oh, it's fine! Eh-it was…it was fine. Don't be sorry. I mean, it was a one-time thing. So...it's fine."

"Okay…good. Thank you. For being so understanding, I mean, not for the kiss, obviously."

Oh, wow! Do you see that? That's a herd of hot pink Awkward Elephants stomping right by us, wearing those multi-colored propeller hats, and waving over-enthusiastically with their trunks.

Rachel, bless her, giggles away my craziness. "Yes, I got it." She runs her fingers down the length of one of her ponytails; the glossy red of the ribbon winks against the afternoon sun. Her face switches from amusement to one of seriousness again. "I don't want to push you, Quinn. But there must have been a _reason_ you kissed me. And I'm wondering if maybe that reason is… I'll let you fill in that blank. It's not my place to do so."

"Okay. Fair enough." I breathe in and breathe out perhaps the deepest breath of my life, steeling myself. I guess I'm about to come out of the closet again… Even though Rachel already caught me in there, organizing my 'I'm a Lesbian!' designer shoes (…or would 'I'm a Lesbian!' shoes be something more sensible, like hiking boots? Or Doc Martens? … Oh God, am I stereotyping my own kind? Is it okay to do that? _Ugh_.)

Finally, I say: "I think you're implying that I kissed you because I'm gay, or bisexual, or confused, or whatever. If that's the case, then to answer you: yes, I like girls."

She doesn't look shocked or disbelieving or unsure of how to proceed; rather, she gives a few nods, lips slightly sticking out in this pensive way, as if satisfied with my confirmation.

"I must admit," she says, "that I came to that conclusion last night. It is certainly a surprising development, but I believe I have already accepted the fact as if I've known it forever."

I don't really know what to say to that, so I just nod – this probably-stupid-looking series of nods, like I'm a life-sized bobblehead doll.

"Did you…did you tell anybody?" I ask, a wince already flashing across my face at the thought. "Finn? Kurt?"

"Of course not. I would never tell anyone; it's not my place to; it's only yours."

I release a relieved breath I hadn't known I was holding. I offer a little smile. "Thanks."

"Of course. … Well… I _did_ tell my dads..."

"Oh God!"

"But that's only because I was in quite a state of shock when I got home, and they asked me what was wrong, and I couldn't very well _lie_ to them. I'm sorry, I just told them that you abruptly kissed me; I had to talk about it with someone, and they were the only and obvious choice, and I – "

"Rachel! Whoa, slow down. It's okay, seriously. I'm actually…I'm glad they know. What did they say?"

"Just that I should be a supportive friend to you in this surely confusing and trying time; which I told them I was already fully planning on doing." She smiles at me then, this smile that speaks of friendship and loyalty and just a dash of bashfulness; I smile back, hoping that the warmth in my stomach and the feeling of a hug squeezing my heart is shown in the pull of my lips, the light in my eyes.

"Did they have any advice for you to pass on?"

"Not specific _advice_, per se, but they did point out how hard it must be on you. With your parents..." An apologetic frown flips her smile right over.

I purse my lips, swallow at my dry throat. "I don't think I'll ever be able to come out to them," I say, lifting my shoulders high up in a matter-of-fact, 'what can you do?' shrug.

"Nonsense!" Rachel leans forward and plants a hand right on my knee. I force myself not to break away from her eyes and look down at it, even though I can feel her palm's warmth through the fabric of my jeans. "Your parents love you, Quinn. That much is obvious to anyone who sees them interact with you. I'm sure that with the right amount of time, they will understand that you are who you are, and they will accept it." She extracts her hand, moving it back into her own lap; her warmth lingers behind, spreads up my thigh.

"I hope you're right," I say. And then, quieter, "I _really_ hope you're right."

"Don't you worry about _that_; if there's one thing besides my singing and performing abilities that I am naturally the best at, it's always being right," she says, smiling the cheesiest, most self-satisfied smile I have ever seen.

I release a loud, scandalized laugh and whack her on the arm. "Yeah, and real modest, too!"

Rachel sticks out her tongue and squeezes her eyes shut; I laugh harder. She giggles, too, opening her eyes and shooting me a playful wink.

"I'm pretty irresistible, huh?" she says, fluffing the ends of her ponytails and making a show of tossing back her neck importantly.

"Yeah; a real charmer." I roll my eyes.

But something occurs to me...

"Hey, just to clear the air, I don't have a crush on you or anything." Heat spreads across my face, but I continue. "I know I kissed you, which is typically a sign of romantic interest, but I was just really stressed out, and I do care about you as a friend, and I guess I projected all of these confused feelings onto you when we were arguing. I just don't want you to think I'm secretly pining away for you or something. I don't want it to be _awkward_ between us now, is what I'm saying."

She nods. "I understand. I know you don't have an actual crush on me or anything. I may be egotistical sometimes, but I'm not conceited."

"Though I must admit," she continues, twirling the end of a ponytail around her forefinger, "I am quite flattered that of all of the girls to project your pent-up sexual aggression onto, you chose me. It shows that, be it purely subconsciously or not, you do think of me as at least a semi-worthy suitor to fit your needs. Coming from you, that means a lot."

My lips part; my head tilts to the side as I look at her. She really thinks that highly of me? She's "flattered" that she considers herself only "_semi_-worthy" of my "needs?" I don't think she knows how wrong she has it.

"So does this mean we're still friends?" I ask.

"Are you kidding me?" she raises her eyebrows right up to her bangs. "Are you honestly asking me that? Of course we're still friends!" She shakes her head, gives me a 'you're crazy' look while spinning her forefinger near her temple, and belts out her loudest, most charming laugh.

A giant grin splits across my face, scrunching up the corners of my eyes. "Good!" A hearty giggle of my own bubbles up from my chest and spills over.

"We're going to hug now, okay?" she says.

I nod, still beaming, as we scoot closer and wrap each other up in our arms, our own humanized, warm winter coats. We rest our chins on each other's shoulders, heads pressed together, bodies snuggled together. She always gives the best hugs.

And there's that scent again, the sweet subtleness of her perfume and shampoo: lavender-vanilla. My eyes draw closed; a small, contented grin tugs at my mouth.

"Rachel?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. Thank you _so_ _much_."

"For what?"

"For everything."

In response, she holds me closer.


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

As Rachel and I stroll back to my house, I am pleased that the atmosphere between us is the exact opposite of the tension and awkwardness of our journey to the park.

Rather than walk "a respectable distance apart," we amble side-by-side, so close that our hips occasionally bump together. Our elbows linked, we swing our arms through the small gap between our waists.

"Would you like to come over to my house?" Rachel asks. "We still need to have our cooking competition."

"I just don't think that will be fair," I say, "considering I'm going to blow you out of the water."

Rachel releases a mock-offended noise. "Well, we'll just have to see about that, now won't we!"

I smile, knocking my hip purposefully against hers. "I'd love to make you _eat your words_," I nudge her in the side with our joined elbows, emphasizing my lamer than lame pun (she snorts out a disapproving chuckle), "but I don't know about today. My parents would never go for it."

Rachel tugs me to a halt, stopping us at the beginning of the street one over from mine.

"What?" I use my free hand to brush a few wisps of hair from my eyes. She just looks at me, as if I shouldn't even have to ask. "What's wrong?"

"While I understand that you want to respect your parents' wishes and keep a low-profile around them, I do not think it is fair to hinder our friendship just for the sake of keeping up appearances," she says. "Does this mean we're not going to get to hang out ever again?"

I shuffle my feet, rub my nose. "Rach, you know I want to hang out with you. But I'm tired of lying to everyone, about everything. So, I'm going to talk to my parents and convince them to let me be your friend, and if that doesn't work, I'll just have to blatantly go against their orders and get continuously grounded, but it will be worth it." One corner of my mouth lifts in a small, crooked smile. "I just meant they aren't going to go for it _today_. Give it some time, okay?"

She bumps her shoulder against mine, those little dimples popping up as she smiles back. "Okay."

"_Bu-ut_," she sings the word in two syllables as we resume walking. "You're going to wish your sorry booty had more _time_ when I whip you with my cooking."

"Yeah, right."

"Did you get it?"

"Get what?"

"The joke!"

"Um, what joke?"

"That you'll need more _time!_"

My eyebrows furrow together. "Oh. _Haha,_ that's funny."

She huffs. "You obviously do not get it, Fabray, so do not pretend to humor me."

I shake my head, smirking. "All right, then would you care to explain?"

"You're going to need more _time,_" she repeats, slowly, as if it's not the humor I'm having trouble grasping, but the speed with which the joke is uttered. "_Time. _T-h-y-m-e. As in, the herb used for cooking."

"Ohhhhh!" I laugh, at both the cheesiness of her joke and the misunderstanding. "_Thyme! _Yeah, I get it now. Clever, Miss Berry, _sooo_ very clever."

I look at her to catch the proud beam I knew would be overtaking her face at the compliment. "Thank you," she says, boastful.

I roll my eyes, grinning, as we reach the start of my street. My house is all the way down on the opposite end, but it won't take us long to get there.

"So," she says, "before I have to leave, we should probably discuss some matters that are more important than puns about cooking."

"Such as…?" I hedge, gnawing at my lower lip. The poor thing is probably going to split in half one of these days, from all of the chewing I've been doing on it lately. Thank God for ChapStick, let me tell you.

"Such as, how are you going to proceed with Sam now? Surely you are not going to keep up the ruse of dating him."

When I don't respond and merely duck my head down guiltily, Rachel gasps. "Quinn! You can't!"

This time, I'm the one to jerk us to a stop. She slips her elbow out of mine so she can cross both of her arms over her chest. I heave a sigh.

"It's complicated."

"I understand that," Rachel insists. "I really do. But it's not just _your_ feelings involved in the relationship; Sam is getting hurt here, too, with you leading him on. You need to be honest with yourself, or both of you are going to end up heartbroken."

"You say that you understand, but you don't. You _can't._ Not unless you're me, which, last time I checked, you aren't. You're much too short and too loud to be me." I try for a grin, but it falls flat on my face, not reaching my eyes. I don't even draw so much as a giggle from her at my weak attempt at a joke.

"I'll support you with whatever you choose," she says, staring into my eyes so intently that I have to look away for a moment. "Because that's what friends do. However, I just want to make it clear that I think the idea of you staying with Sam despite your inability to feel romantic love toward him is an implosion just waiting to happen. And though I'll always be there to help you pick up the pieces, I would rather your heart not have to break in the first place."

My heart squeezes at her sincerity. _She cares about me_, I think; warmth spreads to my fingertips, my toes. _She really does care about me._

"Well, the good news is, with you as my friend, I can't see my heart ever breaking; it's much too full."

An ear-to-ear grin slides up her cheeks, making those dimples come out in full-force. Her cheeks flush a rosy glow. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me," she gushes. "The nicest thing _anyone_ has said to me in a while."

I shrug, trying to ignore the heat of a fresh blush upon my own face. "It's nothing."

"Yeah right it's nothing," she snorts dramatically, rolling her eyes. "You're Quinn Fabray!"

"No," I say, setting firm hands upon her shoulders. The material of her dress is soft to the touch, smooth and cool beneath my palms. "I'm just Quinn. I'm just me. I'm not the bitchy popular cheerleader who used to hate you."

I don't like the idea of her holding me on this pedestal, just because I used to have the school wrapped around my pinkie finger. I want her to like me for _me_.

Rachel nods earnestly. "That's not what I meant; I just mean, you're special to me. You've always been special to me. And now that we're such good friends…" She moistens her lips, blinks into my eyes. "It just…it means a lot to me."

My expression softens, mouth tugging upward of its own accord. "Yeah. Same here."

And because apparently Rachel Berry is the Queen of Conversation Segues, she says, with a _too_-innocent look on her face, "Do you know who else thinks you're special?"

I lift my eyebrows and cock my head to the side.

"All of our friends in Glee!" she says, folding her hands in front of her chest and widening her eyes emphatically. "They all love you for _you_, and it has been proven time and time again that sexuality is not an obstacle amongst the group. I know without a shadow of a doubt that they'll be _completely_ supportive."

My blood turns to ice, numbing my fingers; my stomach churns. Without even realizing I'm doing it at first, my head shakes back and forth, starting slow but gradually gaining speed like a madwoman.

She reaches out and captures my now cold, clammy hands within her warmer ones. I wonder if she will ever stop reaching out to me; I wonder if I will ever actually pull away from her.

"Rach," I say, suddenly breathless, as if I were just kicked in the stomach. "You can't expect me to do that. I'm not ready!" I have to consciously force myself to stop shaking my head back and forth.

"I'm not trying to push you into doing anything," she says gently. "I was just making a suggestion. I think it would be beneficial for you to extend your support group, but if you are not ready to come out to anybody else, then I won't mention it again."

I swallow hard and dole out a single nod. "Thank you." She squeezes my hands before releasing; instantly, I miss their warmth, heating up my own icy touch. "But, actually, Puck already knows."

Rachel's eyebrows shoot upward. "Oh?"

"Yeah. I went to his house yesterday, after…after everything that happened." I smooth my hand over my red blouse, even though it's unwrinkled, and will away yet another ungodly blush.

"And how did he take it?"

"Wonderfully," I say. "He took it really, really well. He's a great friend."

She nods. "Yes, he is. Sometimes he's a jackass, but then he always surprises you when you least expect it and redeems himself."

"Still," I say, "I would like it if you wouldn't go to Puck and, like, talk about my issues with him."

"Of course not."

Then, without even discussing it, we begin walking to my house again, our steps falling in perfect sync. Our arms loop back together. Rachel pulls me right up against her side, our hips colliding with each movement, grinding lightly together: my heart flip-flops; my stomach dips.

"Do you think your father's home yet?" Rachel asks.

"Probably not, but he will be soon. Our hour's almost up."

We're only a few houses away from mine now. I wish we could just march right inside, past my mom, up the stairs, and hang out in my room like two normal teenage girls. Like two normal friends would do. I hate how complicated everything is, when it shouldn't be: being with Rachel gives me the simplest feeling in all the world – happiness. So why can't everything else be as easy?

We stop when we reach her car, parked not in my driveway, but rather by our mailbox. My dad's car isn't here yet; we made it. Relief pours through me, glad I've avoided another lecture.

"I guess this is goodbye," Rachel says, smiling close-lipped, which makes her cheeks look like two baby-apples.

"Just for a little while," I say. "Like – oh, say… – ten minutes from now, when you've gotten home and are able to text me."

"Okay." She gives me a quick hug. "I'll talk to you later."

"You better." I wink and do a dorky salute.

Rachel smirks, rolls her eyes, and gets into her car. She waves one last time before driving off.

I watch her as she goes, fluttering my fingers at her in an absentminded wave of my own.

She turns the corner up ahead, disappearing from sight; I let my hand fall down to my side.

But even though my fingers wilt into a half-fist, the smile on face grows and grows.

There's a new skip to my step as I enter my house, realizing that this is the first time all week that I'm actually _looking forward_ to texting someone, rather than dreading it.

And that, my friends, is what they call 'progress.'

* * *

><p>"How did it go?" Mom asks as I shut the door.<p>

I look up and spot her sitting rigidly on the couch. A fashion magazine is spread open on her lap, but all of her attention is spent searing into me. I can tell she's fighting to keep a neutral expression, though why she's battling such distress, I have no clue.

"How did what go?" I lean against the back of the door, arching one curious eyebrow toward my mom's intense demeanor.

"You and the girl."

"You know what her name is."

Mom's posture stiffens even more; she squints her eyes, studying me, as if I'm a particularly difficult passage she has to decipher for an English essay. "You're not supposed to hang out with her."

"Mom, _Rachel _is my friend! And a really cool person." I walk over to her, holding out my hands as if to beg her to see reason. "Honestly, her dads are nice and not-at-all dangerous. Why can't I hang out with her?"

Mom's nostrils flare; she blinks a few times too many and rolls her lips together. If I didn't know any better, I would think she was holding back tears. But that's ludicrous – Mom isn't a particularly dramatic person. In fact, I don't think I've _ever _seen her cry…not in the past year or two, anyway.

Sure enough, her face is back to one of pure calmness, a blank slate. But the way her eyes cut into mine tells me she means business.

"Quinnie, your father and I have forbidden you to be around negative influences such as the Berry family. We only want what's best for you."

I throw my arms up in the air and utter a loud noise that is half-scoff, half-frustration. "I get that you guys just want what's best for me, I really do, but why can't you just _trust_ me? Why can't you see that I'm mature and smart enough to make my own decisions?"

Mom's eyes widen just a fraction; her fingers make a strange skittering motion over her magazine. "Why is this so important to you? You have lot of friends, sweetheart; surely you can spend your time elsewhere. Why do you care about being her friend so badly?" Her words are spoken off-handedly, but I detect the softest undercurrent of a plea buzzing through their core.

This whole conversation is beyond frustrating. "Because she makes me happy!"

Mom just stares at me, as if happiness is a foreign concept. I can _see _her throat constricting as she swallows.

"Yes, I have other friends," I say, leaning forward on the arm of the couch and setting a hand onto her arm. "Brittany and Santana are great, and Sam makes me laugh, and Puck is…he's just _Puck_." I smirk to myself and shake my head at the thought of Puck's antics before continuing. "But just because I have all of them in my life, that doesn't mean that I should shut out other opportunities for friendship. Especially not when said friend has already proven to be pretty dang awesome."

I smile gently at Mom, hoping she'll realize that she and Dad are being too strict in regulating who I can or can't hang out with.

I can see that my speech has her resolve wavering, so I go in for the kill. It pains me to do so, like little knives stabbing all over my soul, but it must be done if I want her to cave.

I force a 'come on now' type of grin and say: "I'm not going to magically wind up liking girls just because I'm around two gay guys, you know? It's...it's a choice, right? So, I'll just, I'll _choose_ not to be gay!" I shrug and raise my eyebrows, daring her to disagree with that logic.

Mom's lips part; a tiny crease forms between her puckering brow. Then, she surprises me by leaning forward and wrapping her arms around my waist, pulling me in for a big hug. I hear the magazine slip from her lap, its pages rustling as it hits the floor.

I utter a surprised "oh!" before hugging her back. Her arms are encircled tight, crushing me to her as if she never wants to let go.

When a good minute has passed and she's still clinging to me as if I'll float away forever if she releases her death-grip, I pat her on the back and squirm.

"Um, Mom, I'm totally feeling the love and all, but you're kind of weirding me out," I say with as easygoing of a laugh as I can manage.

After I've been extracted from Mom's embrace, I'm surprised to see that her beautiful, youthful face looks like it has spontaneously aged five years: her mouth sags down, worry lines wrinkle her brow, and there is a distinct tiredness that has snuffed out the twinkle of her hazel eyes.

My fingers fiddle with each other of their own accord as I ask, "So…does this mean I can go over to Rachel's house later?"

Mom shakes her head back and forth, back and forth. "That's up to your father, sweetheart. And you know what he'll say."

My heart plummets, abandoning the meager supply of hope I had stored up throughout our conversation. I nod, plastering an indifferent expression on my face, and head up to my room.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I sneak a parting glance toward my mother.

But she's not there; her place on the couch is empty. She must have gone into the kitchen or something.

All that remains is the glossy magazine, lying face-down on the carpet, out of place amongst the tidiness of its surroundings.

* * *

><p>Buttercup is sprawled out on my bed, sleeping.<p>

"Lazy goose," I mutter, closing my door. I smile as her legs kick outward and she releases a loud, unladylike snore; I wonder if she's dreaming about chasing rabbits.

I sit on the edge of my bed, careful not to wake her. Then, I check my phone for any new messages; I only have one, a text from Puck, sent around twenty minutes ago.

Puck: **hey how are u holding up?**

My heart warms.

Me: **Really well; thanks for asking. :) Actually…Rachel came over today.**

Puck: **what? details, fabray, i need DETAILS!**

Me: **Want me to call you? Probably will be easier than writing it all out.**

Puck: **hell yeah!**

Puck answers after half a ring: "Hello?"

"Hey, Puck. How are you?"

"Oh, come on, skip the 'how are you' bullshit and get to the good stuff," he says. Then, with a groan, "You're turning me into such a girl."

I smirk. "Do you want me to tell you what happened, or are you going to complain that you've actually developed into a sentimental person who cares about the well-being of others?"

"Yeah, yeah; let's have it already."

I tell Puck pretty much everything, starting with Rachel showing up at my house unannounced (which made him emit a 'yeah, you should have seen _that_ coming' snort), all the way to my conversation with my mom, and how she was acting really weird. Puck only interrupts a few times, but to his credit, it's to ask thoughtful questions – well, some of them are worded rather crudely, but it's the meaning behind them that counts.

"Yikes," he says once I've finished. "When did your life turn into a soap opera?"

"I don't know, but you're welcome to join the cast. We could always use more supporting roles."

"I dunno…I'd just steal all your thunder. The badass-sexy presence of Puckzilla cannot be ignored; I'd be stealing all the Emmy's from you."

I laugh. "Yeah, the network would cancel my show and replace it with a spin-off about you."

Puck chuckles. "You bet your hot little ass they would!"

I roll my eyes at his word choice toward my posterior. "Whatever, Puckerman. Whatever."

"So, you going to dump Sam?"

I blink at the sudden subject change. "Um…I don't know."

He sighs. "Look, Quinn, I'm not going to tell you how to run your life. I know that shit's been hitting the fan for you lately. But Sam is my friend, too; he's actually a pretty cool dude. Just put yourself in his shoes; he's probably confused outta his damn mind about the way you've been acting."

"You're right; Rachel's right. I get it. But breaking up with him…it would be like…" I scratch the back of my head, searching for the right words. "It would be like…like, that's it, you know? That would be me finally admitting that I'm…that there's no hope for us, because I'm…" My stomach twists.

"Because you're…." Puck encourages.

I fling my head backward, eyes squeezing shut. "Because I'm gay."

"Yes. Because you dig chicks, not dudes. Maybe life would get easier if you just accepted that fact."

I fall back onto my pillows; my eyes open, catching sight of one of the Bible verses painted on my walls. I immediately close my eyes again, feeling sick to my stomach. "Maybe…but maybe not. And as long as there's even a possibly of the 'not,' then how can I accept it?"

"There will always be a possibility that things won't work out; that's called 'life,' Quinn. Look, I'm here for you, but just know that I'm rooting for you to realize that you're awesome just the way you are."

"Thanks," I say, the word quiet but loaded with emotion.

"Yeah, no problem. But now I'm going to hang up, before I grow a vagina from all this lovey-dovey shit," he says.

I chuckle despite myself. "Bye, Puck."

"See ya, Basket Case."

I smirk as I hang up. _Puck is such a bonehead,_ I think. I open my eyes again, rolling over to lightly run my fingers over Buttercup's soft golden fur. _Such a stupid, dumb, completely lovable bonehead._


	16. Chapter 16

Thanks again for all of the support; I really do appreciate the feedback. I know that Quinn's mind may seem pretty Rachel-oriented, but I promise that this story is not just going to be about her pining after Rachel. :) Reviews are always appreciated. I hope you enjoy this next chapter.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER SIXTEEN<strong>

Rachel and I text back and forth for a few hours.

I love how she uses proper grammar, spelling, capitalization, etc.; it's refreshing from the stereotypical teenager 'chat speak.'

We talk about completely random stuff: Mr. Schue's horrible sweater vests, the amazing food at Breadsticks, how sunny the weather has been lately, why she loves Barbra Streisand so much (I regretted asking her that when she gave me a _fourteen_-page-long message in response).

She takes my mind off of my worries, and I'm grateful for it.

While eating dinner with my parents, I keep thinking back to snippets of our conversation, and these random smiles pull at my lips.

I dig into the spaghetti and meatballs my mom made, savoring the taste and thinking back to the cooking competition that Rachel and I still need to have. My smile spreads even wider at that.

"Why are you so smiley tonight, sweetheart?" Dad asks with a fond chuckle, taking a sip from his wineglass.

I concentrate on swirling some spaghetti 'round and 'round my fork.

"Um, no reason," I say. "I'm just…happy, I guess. Have you ever just been happy for no reason?"

I meant it rhetorically, but he answers me anyway.

"There are always reasons for emotions, Quinn," he says in a know-it-all tone. "Maybe you're subconsciously excited about something."

"Whatever it is, I'm glad it's making my little girl show those gorgeous, four-thousand-dollar teeth so much," he adds in a tease, referring to the braces I had years ago.

I roll my eyes and giggle at him.

When I look up from my food, my eyes lock with my mom's.

She is staring at me, wearing a deep frown, fork hovering over her plate.

Taken aback, I cock my head at her. I open my mouth to ask what's wrong, but she quickly plasters a grin on her face and starts talking to my dad about his work.

Oh_kay_. Whatever _that_ was all about….

Mom and Dad chatter inanely for a few minutes; I take the opportunity to bask in my own thoughts.

I think back to Rachel and me walking to my house. I told her I would try to convince my parents to let me be her friend. I've already propositioned my mom today, and that didn't exactly go as well as I had hoped, but Dad is in such an easygoing, jovial mood right now that I think, _Why not?_

His favorite meal is Mom's spaghetti and meatballs, and he's had some wine to loosen him up, and as far as I've gathered from the bits and pieces I catch of his conversation with Mom, he had a great day at work: if now isn't a good time to ask him, then I'm basically screwed. I couldn't ask for him to be in a better mood.

"Hey, Dad?"

"Yeah, sweetie?"

"Well…I've been thinking…You trust me, right?"

He sets down his wineglass and tilts his head. "Of course."

"And you know that I would never do anything to betray that trust, right?"

"…Yes…"

"Well…Rachel invited me over to her house, and I was just wondering if I could g – "

"Quinn," he interrupts sharply. "We've been over this before. The answer is, and will always be, 'no.'"

My stomach churns; frustration prickles beneath my skin, like an itch I can't scratch. "Well, then can she come over here at least?"

"I don't want you around that girl, period!"

I throw my fork onto my plate with a loud _clang._ "You're being ridiculous! This isn't fair!"

"Quinn, stop yelling," Mom says, reaching a hand over and placing it on top of my dad's. "Nobody needs to get upset right now. Let's all just take a deep breath and – "

"Just give me a good reason," I say to Dad, ignoring Mom. "Any reason other than Rachel having two dads."

"There is no other reason to be given, because that is reason enough," he says, voice dangerously low. "Now quit being disrespectful and drop it already. You have plenty of other friends; you don't need to hang out with someone whose family is so beneath ours." He says this so casually, as if he is speaking a simple truth rather than a terrible insult.

I draw in a small gasp; my eyes widen. Heat spreads all through my veins, burning me with shame, inside-out. If I were to come out to Dad, would he find me to be beneath _my own family?_

Oh God…the thought makes me sick.

I push my plate away, my appetite gone.

"I'm suddenly no longer hungry," I say, clearing my throat. "May I please be excused?"

Dad grunts. "Fine."

Mom opens her mouth to object but seems to think better of it.

My legs tremble beneath me as I stand up and gather my plate and glass half-empty with water. I want to say something else – I don't know _what _exactly, but I don't trust myself to speak; my voice will surely come out stuttering and shaking.

I put my food in the kitchen before going up to my room. I flop onto my head, bury my head down deep into my pillows, and scream.

I scream loud and long, pulling from the very base of my abdomen, from the breadth of my lungs.

But my parents don't hear me.

They never do.

It's not like I expected them to anyway.

* * *

><p>I skip church on Sunday, claiming that I have a headache and need to sleep in.<p>

But really, I am a coward, plain and simple.

I'm avoiding Sam. He stopped trying to text and call me, probably thinking that he would finally be able to have a face-to-face confrontation with me at church, not pegging me as the type to bail. But he should know by know that bailing is what I do best.

As I make myself complete my homework late Sunday afternoon, I think back to this weekend. To Rachel and Puck's advice, telling me that I should break-up with Sam.

I think about him: Sam, with his caring eyes and his sunny smile and his goofy charm. He deserves so much more than what I can give him; he deserves someone better than me.

My fingers are cold as they punch a message into my phone's keyboard.

Me: **Hey, I'm sorry that I've been ignoring you all weekend. Can we talk tomorrow morning at 8, in the auditorium?**

His reply is almost instantaneous, so eager and accommodating that my heart falls.

Sammy-Poo: **Yeah, of course. I'll see you then.**

I change his name in my address book to 'Sam.' No more silly pet names. No lovey-dovey endearment. Just 'Sam.'

That, more than anything, enforces that our relationship is really about to be over.

Oh, who am I kidding? It was over before it even started.

* * *

><p>I arrive at the auditorium at five minutes until eight. I stand in front of the stage, leaning against it for support, for my legs feel like they're about to give out. My eyes are glued on the entrance doors, waiting for him to arrive. I am in a nervous, jittery mood: anytime there's a sudden noise or flickering shadow, I jump about a foot in the air.<p>

_Calm down,_ I tell myself. _It's going to be all right._

But the longer I stand here, waiting, all alone, I wonder if it really will be. Will I be able to go through with this? I don't want to hurt Sam. I don't want to make him cry or beg or get angry at me or any of the things that come with a break-up. I can't stand the thought of putting him through any more sorrow.

And, of course, there's the fact that by me breaking-up with Sam, I am letting a pretty damn big fissure crack right through my carefully constructed façade. What am I going to tell my parents when they find out I dumped him? Surely Sam will tell his parents, who will eventually talk to mine. And then what? What reason could I possibly have for breaking-up with their perfect future son-in-law?

Still, I know that I have to do this. It's not right to lead him on anymore. It's not right to pretend like I'm in love with him when that's just not even possible.

Sam walks through the doors at a few minutes after eight. He's wearing a cobalt blue sweatshirt, dark jeans, and sneakers. When he gets closer to me, I see that the color of his sweatshirt really brings out his eyes and makes his white-blonde hair glow angelically; my heart swells with affection for him, for the amazing guy that he is.

Seeing him look so cute makes me want to cry, which is ridiculous; if I'm already on the verge of tears, then how am I going to remain strong when the ball really gets rolling?

He stops when he's about a foot away from me. "Hey, Quinn," he says, stuffing his hands into his jeans' front pockets. He smiles a close-lipped, shy smile, and that, paired with the anxiety in his eyes, makes me want to hug him and bury my face against his chest.

_Pull yourself together; my God, woman!_

"Hey, Sam," I say, returning his smile. "First things first: I'm sorry that I threw myself at you, disrespected your boundaries, and then yelled at you when you were just trying to look out for us. Can you ever forgive me?"

"Already forgiven," he says, entire demeanor seeming to release a giant sigh: his shoulders relax, his face is less tense, and his tone is far more easygoing.

I open my mouth to continue, but he beats me to it.

"I'm actually really relieved," he says, pulling me into a hug. "I'm glad you just wanted to meet me here to apologize. I'm sorry, too."

He's wearing the cologne I bought him, and his cotton sweatshirt feels like a warm cloud against the side of my face. I wrap my arms around his waist and close my eyes, fighting back tears.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," I say, hoping he doesn't notice how my voice sounds croaky from the lump hardening in my throat. "You're a great guy, Sam."

"Yeah," he chuckles to himself, not seeming to hear me, still stuck on his earlier train of thought, "I thought you were going to dump me. Boy, is this a relief." His grip tightens around my waist, but I don't think that's why I suddenly feel like the air has been knocked from my windpipe.

Cold tears mingle with warm cotton; my body starts shaking from my suppressed whimpers. _Stay strong, Fabray. Stay strong. You can do this. You _have _to do this._

"Sam," I say, swallowing. "We need to break up."

His arms tense; a horrible silence passes between us. I can hear his heart as it starts to pick up speed; I can feel it hammering wildly beneath my ear.

Simultaneously, I pull away from him as he pulls away from me. I quickly swipe my tears away and sniffle, rolling my shoulders back and lifting my chin. _I can do this; I can do this._

"Wait…what?" he says, eyes wounded and desperate.

"This just isn't working for me anymore. It's over, okay?"

"But I don't…I don't understand. I mean, yeah, you've been acting really weird this past week, but…but you told me you love me. You _are _in love with me, aren't you, Quinn?"

"Sam, I-I do love you, but not, not in the way that you want me to." I press my lips together to stop their trembling.

Sam stares at me, his mouth parting open. "I'm just, I'm having a hard time processing this right now. You love, but you don't love me; you wanted to have _sex_ with me just a few days ago, and now you're _dumping me_…none of those things really go together, you know?" His face is equal parts crestfallen and accusing; his words take on a bitter edge.

"It's complicated," I say, pleadingly. This, at least, is the truth. It's complicated in pretty much every way possible, in more than he could imagine.

"Then we can work it out together." He reaches for my hands, but I shake my head firmly and keep my arms crossed over my chest.

"No. Sam, look, you are an _amazing_ guy, but I have to end things. It's _over _between us now, okay?" And then, because I am an idiot, I add, "It's not you, it's me. And…and we can still be friends, right?" Yeah, because those horrible, shallow-sounding clichés are just what he needs right now. He has no way of knowing that I really do mean them; to him, I just sound like an uncreative bitch trying to hurry this break-up along as quickly as possible.

His expression hardens; he laughs this dry, mirthless laugh. "Yeah, because being friends with my ex who just broke my heart for no good reason is at the top of my To Do List." He shakes his head and turns around. Turns his back to me. Turns away from the hand that I reach out to grab at his shoulder, stepping forward so that I end up catching only air.

"Sam, please, I don't want to hurt you!"

His shoulders visibly stiffen. He pauses in his tracks, turns halfway around, and casts one last stony look at me. "It's a little too late for that."

Then he's turning back around, he's walking away, he's leaving through the double-doors… He's gone.

And even though I'm the one who made it happen, even though I know it was the right thing to do, even though I know that he'll thank me in the long run for setting him free – none of that makes it hurt any less.

None of that halts the tears, or makes my heart feel less heavy, or makes me feel any less self-loathing.

I didn't just lose my boyfriend; I lost a wonderful friend.

And the worst part is, I couldn't even tell him the reason why.


	17. Chapter 17

Just a few quick notes: First, thanks so much, as always, to everyone who has stuck with this story, and who has supported me with it. It truly means a lot. :)

Second, in regards to my characterization of Brittany: I wanted to keep the essence of her, but I don't want her to be as dumb as she is portrayed in canon (like, how she had too low of a GPA to graduate; in my story, her GPA is high enough to graduate. Certainly she's no random rocket scientist here, but she has at least an average intelligence in my story). So, yes, she may make some strange/ditzy comments occasionally, but I tried to give her some more depth than just comic relief.

And, third, Finn: I tried not to make him an evil, mustache-twirling villain or anything, but he will definitely have his douche-y moments, because I think it has been proven in canon that he can be a nice guy...but he can also be a douche. It just depends. So, I hope that I wrote him convincingly, but if you think I could use some pointers with how I portray him, then feel free to let me know. :)

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER SEVENTEEN<strong>

"Hey, Q," Santana says as she and Brittany stride by, their pinkies locked. "Lookin' good."

She glimpses over her shoulder to smile at me, but her mouth changes its mind mid-twitch and transforms into a frown. She tugs Brittany to a stop, and the two hurry over to where I stand beside my open locker.

"Actually, lookin' pretty _bad_," Santana says, eyebrows furrowing. She places her free hand on my shoulder for a few seconds.

"Gee, thanks," I laugh mirthlessly.

"You know what I mean. Why do you look so tired?"

"Did you stay up late last night fighting off the bogeyman? The trick to defeating him is to corner him near a bathtub, and then bludgeon him to death with a toilet plunger," Brittany says.

You know you're having a bad day when even Brittany's straight-faced humor can't make you crack a smile.

"Actually," I sigh, grabbing my notebook for first period, "I just broke up with Sam."

Brittany and Santana exchange surprised glances before staring at me as if I've just sprouted an extra head.

"Um, excuse me?" Santana twirls her forefinger inside of her ear and squints her eyes like a rat emerging into bright sunlight. "Mama thinks she must've misheard you, 'cause there is _no way_ you just said that you dumped Trouty Mouth."

"I don't understand," Brittany says, frowning thoughtfully. "First, you want to jump his bones, and now you want to jump out of the relationship? I thought you really liked him."

"I do really like him!" I insist, shutting my locker door and snapping the combination lock, serving as aural exclamation points. "Just not in a romantic way."

"Look, forget about all that," Santana huffs, flicking an impatient hand through the air. "What are you going to do about prom queen elections now? Who are you going to campaign with? Pillow Lips was your best shot at providing me with some epic competition. Now it's just going to be a landslide to my victory, and that makes the whole thing so _boring_, Q."

Whoa… I had completely forgotten about prom court. I haven't thought about it in weeks, which is weird, since I used to practically obsess over that sacred tiara being lowered upon my perfect prom hairdo on my victorious night.

The whole thing just feels kind of…shallow now. Like, I have so much more important things to worry about instead of adding the unnecessary stress of a glorified popularity contest.

This may sound strange, but a pang of nostalgia hits my stomach; I miss the days when the only worries I had were trivial.

"Like, I _guess_ you could run with Finn, if the dwarf doesn't mind," Santana continues, voice dropping into a mutter. She looks off in the distance, lost in thought.

"Though the 'two perfect blondes' make sense in a more 'vote for perfection, and some of that perfection will rub off on you' strategic way, Finn's the quarterback and always loves to have an excuse to spend some quality time with his hot ex-girlfriend… But would Rachel really let Q wedge back into her man's life?" Okay, now she's just blatantly talking to herself, referring to me in the third person and everything.

"_Yoo-hoo_," I roll my eyes and wave my hand in front of Santana's glazed eyes. She blinks out of her trance and curls her upper lip in annoyance at my fluttering hand. "I'm standing right here. Britt and I are witnessing your trip on the Cuckoo Train."

"I think the madness is hot," Brittany says, pecking Santana on the corner of her mouth and swatting at the butt of her flouncy Cheerios skirt.

Santana smirks and slings her arm around her girlfriend, drawing her in. "I'm only trying to help you stay away from the bloodied, chum-infested waters of unpopularity," she says to me. "Being a loser is like being thrown to hungry sharks, and excuse me if I don't want to see that happen to one of my best friends."

I smile in spite of myself. "Thanks, San. I know you really do care; you just have an odd way of showing it." The warning bell for first period blasts through the air. "We should get to class."

But before I can begin to lead the way, Santana says, "Wait. Seriously, what about prom queen?"

"The nominees won't even be announced until next month," I point out. "And the senior class chooses who's nominated; I may not even get on the ballot. If I do, then I'll take it from there. But let's not worry about that bridge until we come across it."

"I don't like bridges," Brittany says, snuggling against Santana. "The trolls that live under there make me answer riddles while they steal my socks."

"I know, baby," Santana coos, running a hand over the top of Brittany's light blonde ponytail. "I know."

Together, we walk to our English class, Santana and Brittany debating the correct way to vanquish evil trolls. The way they discuss it so seriously, in hushed tones and meaningful nods, makes an unbidden grin steal across my face.

Yeah, they're weird and can be annoying as hell (well, particularly Santana and her bossy attitude), but at the end of the day, I wouldn't trade them for the world.

* * *

><p>When I enter English class, Rachel is already seated front and center. I give her a little wave and a friendly smile as I pass her desk, heading to the back to sit with San and Britt.<p>

Rachel's sunny smile flickers to a confused one; from my peripheral vision, I see her twisting around in her seat.

I lower myself into my regular desk, setting my bag on the floor. When my vision trails upward again, it locks onto Rachel, staring at me.

She widens her eyes, purses her lips, and jolts her head, as if to say, 'Uhm, _hel-loo, _what are you doing?' She motions with her hand for me to sit beside her.

I grin and toss her a playfully smug wink, beckoning my forefinger for _her_ to join _me_.

Students stream into the room, filling up the rows between Rachel and me, effectively obscuring us from each other's eyesight.

"Why are you talking to the hobbit in some freakish secret language?" Santana scoffs.

Rachel appears in that moment, placing her books onto the tabletop of the desk next to mine. She sits down primly, smoothing down the rear of her pink skirt so it doesn't ride up, crossing her ankles together.

"Nice of you to join us," I say with a triumphant smirk.

"Says you," Santana mutters under her breath.

Rachel either doesn't hear Santana, or – most likely – she chooses to ignore the girl's standard rude comments.

"I hate having to sit in the back," she tells me, tossing her curtain of dark hair behind her shoulders. "Why wasn't the front row sufficient for you?"

"Because you have to actually pay attention and not talk when you sit that close to the teacher."

I mean, I take copious notes when needed, make sure to study for my tests, always do my homework on time, and maintain a high GPA, but that doesn't mean I'm going to resort to sitting in the front of the class. That's like hanging a sign on your neck that reads 'Professional Ass-Kisser and Proud Teacher's Pet.'

"Besides, I can't just leave Santana and Brittany; consider this a compromise," I add.

Rachel gives my arm a little shove. "It's not exactly a 'compromise' when one side completely gets their way and the other doesn't at all, now is it?"

"But I'm worth it," I say, fluttering my eyelashes dramatically and tossing my head back regally.

"Oh yeah, you're something all right," she grumbles, but there's a grin quirking up the edges of her pouting mouth.

"Hey, Rachel," Brittany says, leaning across Santana's desk so much that her butt is high in the air, back arched like a panther ready to pounce. Santana starts drumming her fingers across Brittany's behind to a tune only she can hear. "I just wanted to say, I know we've had our differences, and you talk so much that I sometimes fall asleep in the middle of your sentences, but I'm glad that you and Quinn are becoming friends."

Rachel's face softens, a shy type of joy sparkling in her eyes while an exuberant flush tints her cheeks pale pink. "Thank you," she says, smiling hesitantly. "That means a lot."

Santana keeps strumming Brittany's butt absentmindedly. "Yeah, well, not all of us are so gung-ho for you to be infiltrating the Unholy Trinity with your ninja-midget ways," she says. "It's called a _trinity _for a reason, meaning we don't need a fourth member. So don't get used to it, Berry."

"Ignore her," I tell Rachel quickly, hating how her eyes are now wounded and her smile has slid right off her face. "She thinks that if she doesn't reach a certain bitchy quota each day, people will discover that, deep-down, she's actually a decent person who cries at chick flicks and has a poster of a basket of kittens hung up next to her bed."

Santana glowers at me for spilling some of her secrets, but I meet her gaze head-on, unflinching. When Rachel giggles uncertainly at what I told her, Santana swivels her glare to the petite brunette before rolling her eyes right out of their sockets and turning her attention back to Brittany, who is still practically straddling Santana's desktop.

A bit of Santana's hidden ooey-gooey center rises to the surface when she squeezes Brittany's rear playfully and slips her hands to her girlfriend's sides, fingers digging in and tickling her. Brittany releases a loud squeal of laughter that is drowned out by the sound of the piercing late bell; she bucks away from Santana like a rogue horse and shimmies back into her own desk.

"Santana!" Brittany whacks her on the arm, but her chiding tone is negated by the beam she wears.

"What? I can't help myself. My body is hot for my gorgeous girlfriend," Santana whispers, sneaking a quick kiss to Brittany's blushing face.

Rachel and I raise our eyebrows at each other. "Um…are they like that all the time?" she whispers.

"Pretty much," I whisper back, rolling my eyes. "They're so sweetly perverted, it'll make you catch a cavity. I'm going to need you to stick around and keep me sane.

"Oh, Quinn," Rachel _tsk_s, shaking her head mockingly. She presses a hand to the side of my arm, her eyes faux-pitying. "If _sanity _is the reason you're keeping me around, you're going to be sorely disappointed."

The teacher chooses that moment to enter the room, so I have to cover my mouth with my hands to keep from laughing out loud.

Rachel giggles at my shaking shoulders and crazed eyes. "Now quiet down," she whispers. "I'm the type of student who actually _likes _to learn."

I watch as Rachel begins taking vigorous hand-flying-across-the-page notes as our next English assignment is given out, literally recording _every_ damn word the teacher utters.

I see Santana doodling different variants of mashing up her and Brittany's names together, making swirly heart designs all over the inside cover of her notebook.

I catch Brittany curled halfway under her desk, looking like she's trying to stick her feet behind her ears, which is sadly not that strange or uncommon coming from her.

And then there's me, closeted Christian lesbian who doesn't know what the hell to do with herself.

Yeah. Sanity. My friends and I have it in spades.

* * *

><p>After class, I walk Rachel to her locker.<p>

"Hey, there's something I need to tell you," I say, rocking back and forth on my feet as she twirls the code into her glittery pink combination lock.

"Go right ahead."

"I broke up with Sam."

Her fingers freeze; she turns her head to look at me, eyes widening and lips parting. "Oh, wow! Quinn, I'm…that's…wow. How did it go?" Concern shines in her amber-brown irises, creases a small vertical line between her eyebrows.

"About as well as can be expected," I sigh. "As in, not at all. I just, I feel really bad about it. I hate to make him sad, you know?"

Rachel nods and turns back to her locker. "I'm sorry you had to do that, Quinn, but it was the right decision, okay? Don't beat yourself up over it. I'm sure you and Sam will be back to being friends in no time."

I open my mouth to reply but am interrupted by a hulking mass of six-foot-plus teenage boy who slides clean in front of me and attacks Rachel in a bear hug.

I stumble backward, barely preventing his clumsy feet from smashing on top of my open-toe sandals.

"Whoa, Finn! Watch it!" I snap, not liking the way he just careened right in front of me… But really, _really_ not liking the way Rachel is giggling like a mindless, giddy schoolgirl just because he's hugging her. He must be squeezing her too hard and has deprived her brain of oxygen, thus the ridiculous, breathless laughter.

"Oh, sorry," he says, releasing Rachel and stepping around her so that he can face both of us. He grins at me obliviously. "I haven't been around my girlfriend since Friday, so I was kind of really excited when I saw her."

The tightest of grins carves up my face.

"Isn't he romantic?" Rachel coos, wrapping both of her arms around one of Finn's tree-trunk-like biceps; my grin sours even further. He smiles down at her, that clueless, self-satisfied smile of his that has never annoyed me before, but makes me want to claw my eyes out right now.

"Yeah, he's a regular knight-in-shining-armor," I say, trying to keep the sarcasm from my tone, but failing miserably. "Rach, you should hurry up with your things, or we're going to be late for second period."

"Oh, it's okay, Quinn," Finn says, tone kind and helpful. "You can go to class already; I'll walk with Rachel."

"Um…" I hedge, looking at Rachel to back me up.

But she's busy digging through her things. "Yes, go ahead, Quinn," she says, voice somehow both muffled and echoing from inside her locker. "Your next class is a ways from mine, anyway."

I force myself to smile politely at Finn before walking off, not bothering to say good-bye. I'm halfway down the hall when my body twists around of its own accord, forcing me to catch one last glimpse of the happy couple.

Finn slinks his long arm around Rachel's tiny waist; she closes her locker door and looks up at him, her eyes all agleam and her smile sickeningly sweet.

I turn my back to them and hurry to my next class.

My footsteps are brisk, striking the tile with a vengeance; my stomach muscles feel too tight, as if they shrunk.

I'm just annoyed that Finn interrupted the conversation Rachel and I were having; I really wanted her advice on how to deal if I awkwardly run into Sam in the hallways…or when I inevitably see him after school today at Glee.

Yeah, I'm just so annoyed... That has to be it, because I'm certainly not _jealous..._

My fingers give an involuntary squeeze around the strap of my purse.

Yeah, I'm just annoyed; that's all.


	18. Chapter 18

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

At lunch, I sit with Santana and Brittany.

Rachel's table houses her, Finn, Sam, Kurt, and Blaine, and out of all of those people, there's only one who I would actually feel comfortable spending forty-five minutes in close quarters with right now, and I bet you can guess who that is.

She smiles and waves, but doesn't get up and walk over; I realize why when her group leans in together in a loose huddle, occasionally glancing at me, only to returning to whispering. Each time Sam speaks, they all listen with enraptured stares, nodding in agreement or shaking their head in disbelief.

It's glaringly obvious that they're talking about me, and how I oh-so-viciously dumped Sam this morning. Rachel is the only one who stays out of the gossip (from what I can tell), choosing instead to focus all of her attention on eating her lunch and picking apart her salad. I hope that they aren't saying anything bad about me; the idea of heated, insulting whispers flung around with my name in mind makes my stomach turn queasy somersaults.

I tell myself that Rachel wouldn't let anyone badmouth me, not even Sam, who sort of has a reason to.

After a few minutes of torturing myself, I change seats to the other side of my table, sitting by Brittany rather than Santana, so that my back is to the We Hate Quinn Fabray Brigade. I imagine them wearing matching T-shirts with a picture of my face with a crossed-out circle over it, carrying rhinestone-studded pitchforks that Kurt Bedazzled himself.

Santana lifts her eyebrows at my moving away from her. "What? Do I smell bad?" She lifts her arm and sniffs her armpit. "Nope; I smell like the sweet, sacred breath of an Egyptian goddess."

Brittany bobs her head at Santana, pointing a finger to her like, 'You are so right.'

"It's nothing," I say unconvincingly. "It's just…" I try to think of a good excuse, but thankfully don't have to when a brown paper lunch bag is dropped noisily onto the table, and a familiar Mohawk-sporting body plops down in the seat I just vacated.

"Wazzup, my red-hot tamale sisters?" Puck asks casually, waggling his eyebrows at each of us in turn. "Anyone want an extra soda? I accidentally packed two."

"Are they diet?" Santana asks.

"Hell no!"

"Then, 'hell no' from me, too," Santana says, scooting her chair away from Puck as if the very sight of a sugary drink will make her catch its calories.

"I'll take one," Brittany says.

"Yeah, because you plus sugar is always a good idea," I tease, poking her in the ribs.

Brittany giggles and swats my hand away. She takes the Coke from Puck and smiles her gratitude.

We eat our lunch in silence for a few minutes until Puck says, "Why do they keep looking over here?"

"Who?" Santana asks.

"Our fellow Gleeks; Rachel, Finn, Blaine, Kurt, Sam…" I watch as the pieces of his puzzle click into place right after he says that last name. "_Ohhh_, so you must have dumped Sam I Am, huh, Quinn?" The smallest of smiles quirks up his lips; he graces me with a short, encouraging nod, telling me that he thinks I did the right thing.

"Yeah."

"Did he try to make you eat green eggs and ham?" Brittany asks, and like always, I can't tell if she's joking or being serious.

"Um…no."

She nods knowingly, as if this had been her desired answer all along.

"Glee is going to be awkward after school today, huh?" Santana says it more as a statement than a question.

"Probably," I say at the same time that Puck says "you can count on it" and Brittany says "I honestly think it's kind of racist that you didn't eat the eggs and ham just because they were green, Quinn."

We all stare at her with baffled expressions.

"You know," she says, looking down at her chicken salad sandwich, "I'm just trying to fight for equality."

After a moment, she looks back up at us with a mischievous glint in her eyes, a chuckle escaping from her lips. "I totally had you guys there, didn't I?"

After a second of stunned silence, Puck, Santana, and I crack up and chuck our balled-up napkins at her. She laughs and bats them back at us, shrieking in delight.

"You're impossible!" Santana huffs, grinning like an idiot.

"Yeah, but you love me anyway," she says, sticking out her tongue.

"I do," Santana says, face softening to puppy-dog affection. "I really do."

"_Ewww_," Puck groans. "Stop it before I yak up my lunch."

I shake my head at my friends' antics, wondering how I got stuck with them. _Honestly, it's a wonder I like them so much_, I think, rolling my eyes and smirking. Yeah, the warm feeling in my stomach means nothing to me.

"You guys are so immature," I say.

In response, Brittany goes cross-eyed, Santana puffs out her cheeks and flares her nostrils, and Puck sticks out the tendons of his neck while pretending to rip off his Mohawk.

I fight back my smile and emulate Brittany from earlier, sticking my tongue out, going so far as to even blow a raspberry.

Immaturity is apparently contagious.

* * *

><p>After lunch, I stand at my locker, gathering my journals and textbooks for the afternoon portion of my classes.<p>

Santana, Brittany, and Puck went to their own lockers, so I'm left alone. The hallway has the occasional fellow student pass by, sometimes calling out my name and swapping a smile with me, their entire demeanor brightening after I've graced them with such simple kindness.

This makes me think back to last year, when I was _the _girl at McKinley.

My popularity was note-worthy but nothing too special freshman year, but it really started taking off when I was a sophomore and was bumped to captain of the cheerleading squad. That was also the year that I dated Finn: with his quarterback status and my head Cheerio ranking combined, we were an unstoppable force of coolness and desirability.

But last year, my junior year, was the Golden Days – well, for the first semester, anyway. I was Coach Sylvester's most prized cheerleading weapon and practically her human pet, which in turn meant that I was more feared than ever; my word was law, and everyone wanted a piece of McKinley High's reigning queen.

Finn and I were still going strong, despite Rachel's persistence to break us up. That's all water under the bridge now, but at the time, I really hated her for it: what kind of person tries so actively to pursue somebody who is already in a relationship? To be honest, I still think that was rather sleazy of her, but now instead of feeling annoyance over it, I feel gratitude: I should thank her and send her a fruit basket or something, since if it wasn't for her unyielding pursuits and flirting with Finn – which led to him dumping me because, apparently, I wasn't as 'supportive' and 'around as much' as Rachel was to him – I would most likely still be together with the dull, simple-minded guy.

Anyway, after Finn and I broke up at the end of the first semester, something changed; my inner self started to fight back. Like in the locker room: I no longer had a hot boyfriend to consider anymore, so now my eyes were free to roam the bra-and-panty-clad athletic bodies of my fellow teammates, which led to me ultimately quitting the Cheerios.

After I ditched the red uniform with its tiny skirt that held so much power, I was knocked down a few pegs on the social ladder. It didn't help that I became a much more active member of Glee Club and started talking to more and more of my fellow "Gleeks" in the hallway between classes to discuss our routines and newest song selections.

It was only a matter of time before I became Just Quinn, a semi-popular girl who some people still feared and revered, but most simply regarded as a has-been. I mean, there were days when I was actually _Slushied_, which is usually reserved only for the nerdiest of nerds. That was definitely my roughest patch, days I'm not keen on ever reliving. After quite a few of my white or light-colored cardigans were stained beyond repair and sent to the fashion morgue, I had to plan my wardrobe around colors that coordinated with the Slushie flavors – sacrificing my style, my one true safe form of self-expression, had been my indicator that I had hit rock bottom.

But then, of course, there was this year, when I started dating Sam, one of the coolest and cutest boys in school.

It was the popularity boost that I needed, giving me just enough instant Cool Cred to be out of the firing line of Slushies and held in high regard by my peers again. Suddenly, almost over-night, I went from Just Quinn to Pretty Damn Popular Quinn, not ever fully reclaiming my throne, but at least I was no longer a court jester who spent each day in the stocks while rotten tomatoes were chucked at my head; if not a princess, then I was at least a duchess, and though I used to never settle for anything, after my hellish second semester of junior year, that ranking was fine by me.

A brief flicker of worry works through me right now; I wonder if, now that Sam and Quinn are no longer Sam&Quinn, if that means I'll be back to receiving Slushie facials and insults hurled my way on a regular basis. A shiver slips down my spine at the thought. But, honestly, I don't think that will happen; I've proven that I still have what it takes to be HBIC and that I won't take crap from anyone, so hopefully now people will leave me alone for fear that I'll strike back this time.

Lunch will end in about ten minutes; I guess I could go to the library and wait until the bell for fourth period rings. Or maybe I could find Rachel and ask her to fill me in on what her friends were saying about me during lunch… But the question is, do I really _want_ to know?

I close my locker door and jump about a foot in the air when Rick the Dick is revealed leaning languidly against the locker next to mine.

His body is turned to face me fully, hands in his pockets and disgusting smirk all over his punchable face. Seriously, he has one of those faces that are just _begging _for somebody to throw in a good punch, if you know what I'm talking about.

The sad thing is, he probably thinks he looks sexy posing all carelessly like that, but Rick being sexy is about as plausible as a rattlesnake being cute and cuddly: it's a crime against nature that just can't be done.

"Hey, gorgeous," he says, his eyebrows doing this obnoxious dance. "I didn't see you at my party this weekend."

"That's because I wasn't there," I say, my tone screaming 'DUH, you moron.'

I hug my books to my chest to combat his ogling; God, seriously, can't he at least _try_ to be subtle about it?

"When are you going to realize that resisting the ol' Rick charm is futile? One day, sooner or later, you will be throwing yourself at me, and I may have lost interest."

When I roll my eyes in such a dramatic way that would have even Santana proud of the annoyed theatrics, Rick quickly adds, "But don't worry, baby; I think that, for you, I could always make an exception."

"Rick," I say, saccharine enough to invoke diabetes, "if you'll excuse me, I'm going to walk away now. You see, I just ate lunch, and being around you for prolonged periods of time makes me feel like I'm about to puke." I let my condescendingly sweet face morph into my true feelings of irritation, hoping that my whole 'I'm not interested' vibe will finally sink into his impossibly thick skull.

No such luck.

"Oh, Quinn," he chuckles and shakes his head as if I'm an adorably stubborn child, "you really are trying so hard to fool yourself, huh?"

"Goodbye, Rick," I huff, stepping around him and starting to stride away.

But I don't even get two full steps before his hand is clamping down on my shoulder and yanking me to face him. When I shoot him the glare to end all glares and literally _slap_ his hand off my shoulder, he merely chuckles again and smiles in what I'm sure he thinks is a charming way. (He does, however, wince just the tiniest bit at my slap, which makes me feel at least a little better.)

"I heard that you and Sam are over," he says smugly.

I try to maintain a neutral expression, but I must fail miserably, because his eyes light up and he snaps his fingers.

"I knew it!" he says. "You finally realized that he's not enough of a man for you, right?"

Okay… That's actually kind of hilarious, the idea that I dumped Sam because he's not manly enough, when it's really basically the opposite. I would laugh out loud at the irony of the situation, but there's no way I want to encourage Rick, so I settle for snorting and rolling my eyes again.

"Sam and I are none of your business," I snap. "_Nothing_ that I do is any of your business, actually, so why don't you just leave me the hell alone? Are you really too stupid to think that I could be interested in you? I mean, you have a dead-raccoon-hairdo sitting on your scalp, for goodness sake!"

Rick's expression darkens; his beady eyes flash. "You know, I'd be careful if I were you, Fabray. The aloof bitch act can only stretch so far before I go from 'turned on' to 'pissed off.'"

And with that, he storms off, purposefully knocking into my shoulder as he does so. My supplies tumble to the floor; the edge of one of my textbooks bounces off my big toe, which is a big _owww!_, let me tell you.

"Asshole!" I shout after Rick's retreating form, not even caring when several people turn to give me wide eyes and raised eyebrows. For once, Rick ignores me. I give my staring classmates a 'turn around and mind your own business' look and flick my hand at them before stooping down to collect my things.

I gather my books and stand up, jumping backward at yet _another_ unwelcome surprise for the day.

Finn stands before me, arms crossed and face frowning. _Gee, thanks for helping me pick up my things; how noble of you,_ I think bitterly, looking up at Finn with an impatient expression. I am so not in the mood for anymore confrontations, which is what I'm about to get if Finn's posture is any indication.

"Why did you break up with Sam?" he demands without preamble.

"Oh, hi, Finn," I say. "Nice to see you, too. I'm doing fine, thanks for asking."

"I'm being serious!" he says with great indignity, as if I'm a regular old jokester who's mocking his very existence by juggling plates on fire and wearing a multi-colored clown wig and a big red nose.

I roll my eyes at his drama king ways. "Can I ask you a question?"

Now he just looks sort of confused: his default setting. "Um, yeah…but I asked you one first!"

I ignore the latter half of his sentence. "Why do you always get into everybody's business and act like you're Saint Finn, savior of the universe?"

His eyebrows scrunch together; I can't tell if he's angry or still just confused. "This is my business; Sam is my friend, and you broke his heart. What gives you the right to think that you can just walk all over people?"

My mouth falls open at his self-righteous tone. It takes me a moment to regain my bearings and to plaster on an indifferent mask, even though, as lame as this is to admit it, his words sting. I hate the implication that I'm some cold, callous bitch who breaks people's hearts without a second thought.

"You don't know what you're talking about," I say in my trademark warning voice: quiet and calm but incredibly dangerous, like the build-up before a hurricane.

"I think you should skip Glee Club today," he says. "Sam is going to be there, but it's not fair for him to have to be in the same room with you right now. He shouldn't have to go through that."

My breaths quicken, heaving my chest; my nostrils flare rapidly. "You can't boss me around, Finn; stop acting like you know everything." I narrow my eyes, hoping that my superior attitude will conceal my hurt feelings.

"It's funny, really, because I always thought that, despite our history, you and I were kind of friends," I say. "But now I see that you think I'm nothing but a heartless bitch, and Sam is suddenly your best friend forever."

Finn's mouth flounders for a few seconds. "Y-you…that's…that's not fair. You're trying to make me feel all guilty and stuff. Y'know, this is so typical Quinn behavior, acting like you're the victim when you're the one who's in the wrong!" He jabs an accusing finger in the space between us.

"Thank you for thinking so little of me," I say with a tight smile. "I'll see you after school at Glee."

I turn around and walk off, leaving Finn to fume or be confused or whatever the hell he wants to do. I don't really care, because he obviously doesn't respect me; he's always so quick to peg me as the villain, when half the time he doesn't even have a handful of facts to back up his claims.

But, really, what do I know? Apparently, I'm just a bitch who treats people like chess pieces in her game of life. Quinn Fabray doesn't have feelings; how could she, when it's so obvious that she doesn't even have a heart?

That must be why my chest feels so empty inside.

* * *

><p>Entering the choir room after school is even more awkward than I thought it would be.<p>

I can practically hear the chorus of crickets chirping at my arrival. The people who are already there – Kurt, Blaine, Finn, Rachel, Sam, Mercedes, and Artie – all swivel their necks towards me in disconcerting unison, the conversation dying right on their lips and vanishing into silence as they all simply stare.

The emotions on their faces range from pitying to anger to sympathetic to one friendly smile (belonging to Rachel; surprise, surprise that she's my only ally here).

I have to walk by Sam in order to climb to the top row. He's sitting in the front with Finn and Rachel, the move obviously executed to put his self far away from our usual spot.

"Hey, Sam," I say softly, offering a small smile.

Finn has his arm around Sam's shoulders for support, glaring at me for daring to speak to his friend.

Sam sits bent with his elbows on his knees, gaze trained forward. His posture stiffens even further when I talk to him, but to his credit, he gives a single nod at the whiteboard and says, "Hey."

The air is so thick in here, you could ladle it up and serve it as one giant pot of Awkward Soup.

When I pass by Sam and start heading up the risers, Rachel surprises everyone by following after me. She even grabs my hand and graces me with a gentle smile.

"Rachel!" Finn says, ridiculously overly shocked at what I'm sure he considers to be a 'traitorous' move on her part. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to sit beside Quinn," she says, widening her eyes in a '_duh_.'

I don't think that I _meant_ to smirk triumphantly at Finn's dumfounded face; it sort of just happens. Nonetheless, I quickly wipe it away, not wanting to invoke any more confrontations.

"Come on, girlfriend," Rachel says, tugging on my hand to lead me up the risers.

Hearing her call me 'girlfriend' makes my smile stretch far wider than it should.


	19. Chapter 19

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

The next two weeks spin by, launching Lima right into the middle of March.

Cold late-February weather is replaced by sunny skies, warm air, and the occasional rainfall. Flowers spring up, gracing the back-to-green grass with vibrant colors and extra vitality. Everywhere I look, people are molting, shedding their coats for light jackets, or forgoing the added layers altogether. Girls' legs come out of hibernation, popping up beneath shorts and miniskirts and shorter dresses; the hallways of McKinley go from heater-blasted to the familiar hum of an air-conditioner.

It's ironic how during the changing season and the rebirth of spring, not a whole lot develops in my own life. The two weeks proceeding today were marked by general static, with only the occasional blip on my radar.

Every day, I eat lunch with Puck, Brittany, and Santana. Every day after school on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, when we have Glee practice, I sit with them as well; sometimes, Rachel joins us, but usually she's in the front row with Finn. Speaking of her fellow Glee co-captain, Finn and I haven't spoken since two Mondays ago when we had our disagreement (to put it nicely) in the hallway.

Sam and I are no better, hardly even managing eye-contact when we're in each other's presence. I've tried talking to him a few times, with awkward results; it's clear that he's still bitter about our break-up, and all I can do is give him time and wait to see if he at least wants to rekindle our friendship.

Rick hits on me a few times during English class, but his advances are less smug and more serious, as if he thinks that he's _thisclose _to having me cave from his sexual prowess… Yeah right.

Rachel hangs out with me during English, ignoring the jabs from Santana, who always makes it clear that she finds Rachel annoying and a temporary addition in my life. I told Santana to knock it off, but she's very territorial, not quick to warm up to people or trust them. At least Brittany's willing to be nice to Rachel and help her feel included.

I hang out with Rachel a few times after school, always in the choir room, just the two of us (and sometimes our resident piano man Brad) as I help her arrange sheet music and we talk about our day. When Brad isn't there, I keep Rachel updated on the progress (or lack thereof, to be more accurate) of my parents; she shows more patience than I feel toward when we can finally spend time at each other's houses again.

The last of my college acceptance or rejection letters arrive. The total tally is, out of the eight colleges I applied to, I got into six and was deemed unworthy by two. That's a pretty freaking awesome ratio, if you ask me.

Columbia, NYU, and Yale are the big ones that accepted me; I also got into the University of Lima and the local community college, Lima College – those ones, basically anyone can get into, but hey, it's still something. I'm also accepted at Ohio State University, but considering my goal is to get _out_ of the Midwest, my real options are the two New York colleges or Yale.

In case you were wondering, Harvard and Stanford are the two that shot me down, but as far as I'm concerned, they're the ones missing out on an awesome addition to their campus, so the loss is theirs.

My parents, of course, were thrilled that I got into such prestigious schools, though my dad hinted that I should attend Ohio State, since he doesn't want me to go too far away. Unfortunately for him, he's just going to have to deal, because there's no way I'm going to be a Lima Loser for the rest of my life.

As for my relationship with my parents, that's really the only thing undergoing any sort of change lately. These changes might be minor, but they are in fact there, like that ripple in the water before high tide begins.

For one thing, I haven't gone to church for the past month: not to Sunday congregation, nor to Wednesday Youth Bible Study. My excuses, though fabricated, sound fairly solid (too much homework; headache; cramps); however, my parents are starting to get suspicious, questioning why I'm suddenly so keen on avoiding the house of the Big Man.

Also, I told them that I broke up with Sam the day after it happened. We were eating dinner, and a comment my mom said gave me no other choice but to come clean.

"So, Quinnie," she smiled, filling her glass with more iced tea, "prom court nominations are just around the corner. The beginning of April, right? I bet you're excited to run with Sam; no doubt you'll both be elected."

"Actually," I said, suddenly very interested with the tablecloth, "Sam and I broke up."

By the looks they gave me, you'd have thought I'd told them I was converting to Judaism.

"Oh, honey!" Mom wailed. "Why?"

"His parents aren't going to be happy with us about this," Dad said to Mom, shaking his head. "Things are going to be awkward at church."

"It's been something that was a long time coming," I said, answering Mom. "We just don't…fit together anymore."

Thankfully, my parents let the subject drop, noticing my discomfort with it, but I got the none-too-subtle impression that they were disappointed with me. As if I had let them down by dumping the perfect boyfriend. I guess I really couldn't blame them.

A few days after that, I brought up Rachel and her parents. This would prove to be the last time in the past two weeks that I mention her, seeing as how this conversation didn't exactly go well.

"So…can I go to Rachel's house this weekend?" I asked, buttering up a roll. Dinner is one of the only times during the schooldays where I have my parents' undivided attention, where we're all together in one place.

Mom's mouth tightened into one thin line; Dad's eyes narrowed and his hand wrapped into a fist around his fork.

"Quinn…" Dad said, in that same dangerously calm voice that I myself was known to use amongst my peers. "We've been over this before. The answer is _no_."

"Honey, please stop asking us," Mom said, her eyes practically begging me. "You know what we'll say."

"Why do you care about being this girl's friend so badly, anyway?" Dad demanded, tone beginning to rise. "Why would you want to be around such a household as hers?"

"I want to be friends with her because she's nice, funny, and caring," I said, feeling my patience starting to stretch further and further, reaching the breaking point. "I don't care if she has two dads or one dad or a hundred dads – _she's_ a good person, and _they_ are good people, and I don't think it's fair of you to judge them."

"Judge them? _Judge_ them?" Dad threw his fork down and glared at me. "People who choose such disgusting lifestyles _want _to be judged; they're practically begging for it. They know what they're getting themselves into when they choose to sin, so they damn well better be able to accept the consequences."

There was something about how know-it-all and self-righteous his demeanor was in that instant. He acted like he knew all the rules of the universe, when the truth was, he didn't know what the hell he was talking about. There was a condescending, infuriated glint in his eyes; his lips curled back, revealing just his top teeth. There was something in that look that made me back off physically, but made me dig my heels in mentally, promising to never bring this topic up to my parents again; rather, I was going to search for the answers myself.

After that conversation, something changed in my relationship with my parents.

I began to grow resentful.

I resented how they always treat me like a child, like I'm too stupid to make my own decisions. I resented how strict they are, how 'yes' and 'no' and black-and-white their perspectives are.

This made me turn to my Bible, vowing to myself that I would find those answers I was searching for one way or another. I didn't want to go to church; this journey I was on with God felt too private to be around other people who treated religion like some pretentious social gathering, making the whole thing feel impersonal and shallow, more about showing yourself off than connecting with others through a divine relationship.

I read the Bible through and through, the way a lawyer does when searching a document for loopholes; I took a yellow highlighter and traced over certain parts, important lines that stood out to me. I didn't just _read_ it: I _studied_ it, delving into every passage, every syllable, as if preparing for the biggest exam of my life.

At nighttime, I prayed for God to give me guidance, for Him to show me the right way, the righteous path to walk along. I prayed for Him to not abandon me, to hold my hand and lift me up onto His shoulders.

Perhaps the largest shift in my usual prayers to him was that now I didn't ask for Him to change me to fit into the preconceived notions of 'right' and 'wrong'; rather, I prayed for acceptance amongst my loved ones, for _their_ opinions to change for _me_, for them to see things past the shallow rules of society and to dig deeper.

After praying, I take to my diary, spilling out the secrets of my day, all twining around that one giant Secret of my life. I would scratch Buttercup behind the ears, maybe throw a rolled up sock for her to fetch, while my pen marked words onto pages.

Words that speak of the deepest part of my soul, those hidden cracks and crevices that sometimes I'm too afraid to even let myself explore. But pen and paper don't judge you; they don't turn their backs or run away. A diary just lets you be _you_, no questions asked. It's my solace, and I found myself turning to it more often than ever these past two weeks.

Now, today is Wednesday. The middle day of the middle week of March. Smack-dab in the center of everything, just like the eye of the storm.

I wake up early to shower, blow-dry my hair, and dress in my new outfit: a pale-peach-colored babydoll dress with white lacy trim all around it. I wear white tights, flats, and a lightweight white cardigan. My hair has grown out to just past my shoulders; my side-bangs are almost to my chin. I slip on a headband that matches the color of my dress, smiling at myself in the mirror at the results.

There's nothing like a cute ensemble to make me feel like a million bucks.

I still have time before I need to leave for school, so I pull out my diary and get some things off my chest. I fell asleep last night halfway during my entry, but there are some inspirational quotes I came across in one of my self-help books (oh, don't make fun; they really can be helpful) that I want to make sure I write down to look at when I'm feeling upset.

"Quinn, honey!" Mom calls up. "You're going to be late if you don't leave soon."

I glance at the clock and see that she's right; time flew by as I wrote in my diary, as it usually does.

I normally hide my diary in the back of my top drawer, where I keep my old yearbooks, but in my haste, I end up tucking it behind my pillow.

I'm halfway out of my bedroom when I hear the sound of something landing on the floor with a _thud_, but I'm in too much of a hurry to stop and check what it is.

Rather, I close the door behind me and take the stairs two-by-two, figuring that it was a stuffed animal or a picture frame that fell. Whatever it was, it's not important; what matters right now is that I'm not late for school.

* * *

><p>This week's assignment for Glee Club is ballads.<p>

Personally, I find ballads to be boring and usually far too long, so I chose to opt out on this one.

Tina hits the last note of the song she sings to Mike; her voice is both sweet and powerful, the pitches floating honest and sure. We applaud her loudly, clapping our hands fast and hard, as Mike jumps up from his seat and runs over to scoop her up in a big, swinging hug. Tina laughs, delighted, and my heart soars for the happy couple. Dating: they are doing it right.

Shortly after, Mr. Schue dismisses us for the day. Soon, everyone has filed out besides Rachel and me.

"Do you have a ballad in mind to sing for the assignment?" Rachel inquires, sitting down on the piano bench to tinker with the keys. Brad already left, which means the piano is ours for the taking.

I sit down beside her, watch as her fingers pick out a tinkling note here, a lingering note there. "Nah. Ballads aren't really my thing."

She nudges her shoulder against mine; like always when I'm in such close proximity to her, I ignore the fluttering sensation that tickles the inside of my stomach. "Nonsense," she says. "Your voice is gentle yet strong, wholesome and classic – it's the perfect structure for a ballad."

I smile, crinkle my nose. "Thanks, but I'll pass. How about you? I'm sure you have something up your spotlight-loving sleeves."

She makes a mock-offended noise. "Quinn!" she pokes my side. "I resent the implication that all I care about are solos and spotlights; I'll have you know, I do in fact have a surprise ballad in mind, but it will be used to showcase my feelings toward my _boyfriend_, not selfishly about _me_, as you may think."

I roll my eyes as she places a scandalized hand over her heart and tilts her head at me.

"Yeah, yeah, Berry," I say with a teasing smirk, "you aren't fooling anyone."

She smiles amusedly, our eyes locking; she must see something in my expression, something I don't even know I'm conveying, for her gaze softens and a frown turns her smile over.

"You and Finn aren't getting along," she says matter-of-factly, before pinning on "are you?" as if the question itself is an afterthought.

"Um..." I turn away and fiddle with the ends of my hair. "What makes you say that?"

"It's glaringly obvious. You avoid each other, and when you are together, you either ignore one another or exchange unpleasant glances. I tried asking Finn about it, but he became broody and closed-off, as he is wont to do when I try to venture into a topic with which he wishes to pretend does not exist. This leads me to believe that he does not enjoy sharing a hostile mood with you, so I'm wondering why it is that you two do not get along well."

"Rachel," I sigh, turning back to her with exasperation, "it's awkward to talk about this with you. Do you really want me to list off what I don't like about your boyfriend? That seems like an argument between us just waiting to happen if I do."

She swallows, nods, and leans in to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. She does this sometimes; fusses with my hair, tugs down my shirt, brushes a stray piece of lint from my pants – her touches are always so gentle, so caring; one second, her fingertips are ghosting over me, and the next, they're drawing away, leaving me feeling more than a little disoriented.

"I love your outfit today, Quinn," she says, surprisingly dropping the subject of me and Finn faster than she usually would.

I love when she talks to me like that, all soft and reverent, as if she's sharing a secret with me, something sacred, just by speaking my name.

I smile brightly. "Thank you! I'm glad that _somebody_ finally noticed. I haven't gotten a single compliment besides yours all day, if you'll believe it." Rachel always notices when I get new clothes and is quick to give me her (always favorable) opinion over them.

"Well, you always look beautiful and exceedingly stylish, so I'm sure people are just tired of pointing out the obvious," she says simply, shrugging one shoulder.

My heart maybe-sort-of melts at that.

"You too," I say. "You've become quite the fashion maven yourself this year, but people are too stupid to notice."

It's true; sure, sometimes she wears clothes that I find myself secretly raising an eyebrow toward, but when she gets it right, she _gets it right_.

Like today, for instance: She's wearing a shiny satin cap-sleeved blouse, black with tiny white polka dots all over it, tucked into a red ruffled miniskirt. Glittery gold flats with buckles on them adorn her dainty feet. Her long dark-brown hair is pulled up into a high, elegant ponytail, a few locks of hair kept out of the up-do to frame her face alongside her recently-trimmed bangs.

She smiles shyly at this and giggles a giggle that puts the tinkling piano notes to shame.

"Play me something," I say, scooting closer to her. Our thighs, sides, and shoulders press together; her sweet, familiar scent floats up my nostrils. I hope the pounding of my heart isn't as loud to her as it is to me.

"Like what?" she asks, biting down on her bottom lip and furrowing her brow in concentration as she strokes her fingers over the ivory piano keys.

"Something instrumental," I suggest. "Something classical and pretty."

"Well, actually, to be honest, I'm not very good," she admits, and I can tell that it pains her greatly to do so. Being a perfectionist is wired into Rachel, so I know that, in her opinion, confessing to not being 'very good' at something is a grievous error. "I do own a grand piano at my house, but it's usually my dads who play it when we have our family sing-a-longs, seeing as how there's only one song that I've mastered."

"Okay then," I say encouragingly. "Play that one."

"Promise not to laugh?"

"Scouts honor." I hold up three fingers, even though I technically never was a scout, but it's not like _she _knows that.

Rachel takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, as if preparing to be slapped in the face, and then lets her fingers do the work.

And, okay, now I can see why she made me promise not to laugh. Because the only song she knows how to play is 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,' and she even manages to mess up a little bit on _that_ one (probably because she keeps her eyes adorably squeezed tight in her scared, apprehensive way).

When she's done, I break into resounding applause. "Brava! Brava! Encore, encore!"

Rachel opens her eyes to look at my jubilant reaction; she scoffs and whacks me gently on the arm. "_Quinn,_" she scolds. "Stop it. I don't deserve an encore; I wasn't that good. The truth is, I just don't have the patience to practice any instrument other than my vocal chords. Singing is far more fun to me than anything else."

"And there's nothing wrong with that," I insist. "And, hell, you can play one more song than I can! In fact, how about you teach me? I'd love to take a lesson of the good ol' 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star' from the human star herself, Miss Rachel Berry."

"Really?" She positively beams. "It would be my pleasure!"

"Hell yeah! Take me under your tutelage; I am yours to be molded."

"All right." She clears her throat, rolls back her shoulders even further, and lifts her chin. "Give me your hands."

I hold them out obediently and wait for her to take them. Hers are warm and slip easily around mine, setting my splayed-out fingers onto the piano keys.

"Here," she says, tucking some of my fingers towards my palm and straightening the ones that need to remain out. "You don't need to use all of them."

I can only nod; my heart is too busy slamming in my throat for me to properly speak. She's pressed right up against me, her hands covering mine, the side of her face hovering beside my chin.

I turn my neck ever-so-slightly toward her, gnawing at my lower lip as I take in her profile.

The way the overhead lighting touches her face as she looks down at our hands makes her impossibly long eyelashes cast shadows over her strong, defined cheekbones.

Her lips are painted red; they look fuller from this angle, more of an arch to the upper one's Cupid's bow.

There is the tiniest of beauty marks on her round, rosy cheek, like a distinguished freckle decorating her face.

"So, your left index finger goes here," she says, jolting me from my thoughts. Blushing, I yank my eyes down to the piano, forcing myself to focus on the lesson. "And your right index finger goes…here."

I swallow hard, nodding.

Rachel guides my fingers through the tune, singing along to it with all the bravado and heartfelt performance of a hit Broadway song. I can't help but grin at how seriously she takes music, even the simple lullabies.

Her hands lead mine through it a few more times until I'm positive that I can do it on my own. I perform it for her, getting all the notes correct on the first try, singing along, our voices at a whisper to make sure we can hear if I'm hitting the right keys.

"You did it!" she says when I finish.

"I did!" I laugh. She laughs, too, throwing her arms around my neck.

I hug her back, setting my chin on her shoulder, loving the feeling of our bodies lightly shaking together with proud, ecstatic laughter. Really, we're pathetic; who gets this excited over learning how to play a basic children's song that is easy enough to master under ten minutes?

"You're an excellent student," she says, and I can't tell if she's joking, or if she really is this proud of me over such a simple thing.

"That's because I have such a great teacher," I say as we pull away from each other.

"Oh," she waves a dismissive hand through the air, but there's no missing the self-satisfied glow all over her face.

"'Oh' nothing, Rachel Berry," I say, giving her shoulder a shove. "Stop pretending to be modest."

She laughs again, and the sound of it fills me up, spilling through my toes, until I am laughing again with her.

Our laughs turn into chuckles, eventually petering out altogether. My eyes fall on the clock; my, how time flies when you're having fun.

"I should get going. My parents are going to wonder where I am."

"Okay." Disappointment flickers across Rachel's face, gone so fast that I wonder if I imagined it in the first place. "I'll see you again tomorrow."

"Yeah; definitely."

"And you'll text me tonight?" she asks, following my lead and standing up to collect our bags on the risers.

"Evil flying monkeys with laser rays couldn't keep me away from you," I joke.

Rachel grins from ear to ear. "Thankfully, I don't think those exist to tempt you."

"Oh, you'd be surprised with what exists," I say. "I mean, before I met you, I thought it was impossible for hobbits to pop out of Middle-earth and show up in Lima, but yet here you stand before me." I try to keep a straight face, but I can't _not_ crack up at my own joke from the way Rachel's glaring at me.

Her mouth is hung open, her eyes are hilariously wide, and her hands are planted on her hips. "Hey!" she says. "I resent that! I expect that sort of comment from Santana, but from _you?_ I am insulted and my ego is developing a rather nasty bruise, Quinn Fabray." She stomps her foot, accidentally kicking a leg of the piano bench in doing so, hard enough to make her utter a sharp curse word and hop around on her opposite foot.

I bend at the waist, unable to stop the laughter, even though it's making my sides hurt. "Oh God! My stomach! Oh my God, I can't…stop…laughing!"

"You are incorrigible!" she seethes. The prim and proper word choice coming from such a tiny, fury-radiating body only makes me laugh harder.

I look up at Rachel, brushing away the few amused tears that have escaped down my cheeks, and see that her lips are twitching up and down, fighting back her own laughter.

When I point at her and laugh one of those silent chortles that is prefaced by a popping of air and then a wheeze – you know what I'm talking about; that really embarrassing, inaudible laugh that is hilarious in its own right – she can no longer hold it back: she, too, bursts into guffaws, slapping her knees and everything.

It's one of the most blissful, carefree moments of my life, and I hold onto the warmth all the way from the choir room to the parking lot.

Outside, it's beginning to rain.

Fat droplets fall at a brisk pace from the gray sky. A cold breeze drifts by, making me shiver.

I hurry home, anxious to beat the storm. I pull into the driveway and jog to the front door, managing not to get too wet from the crying sky.

As I step into my house and shut the door behind me, I smile at the memory of me and Rach laughing together like two utter goofballs.

But what I see waiting for me on the living room couch makes the smile die right on my lips.

All my previous warmth vanishes, leaving me without a happy thought anywhere in sight.


	20. Chapter 20

I don't mean to sound redundant, but thank you all so much for all of the exceedingly WONDERFUL reviews! And also to those who have alerted or favorited this story, or who are simply just reading it - I truly do appreciate you guys. :) Sorry about the cliffhanger, but I tried to have this up as soon as I could (my wrists have been cramping from all the writing I've been doing lately, not that I'm complaining). Just a warning, this chapter is angst-y and dramatic, but hopefully not in an over-the-top way. I want to do the characters and their emotions justice. Let me know what you think, and most importantly, enjoy!

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><p><strong>CHAPTER TWENTY<strong>

I stand frozen to the spot for a few seconds, unable to comprehend.

Finally, I snap out of it, throwing my purse and backpack to the side and sprinting over to where my father and mother sit on the couch.

"No!" I shriek, my heart lurching forward at breakneck speed, blood running cold. "What are you doing? Stop it!"

Panic squeezes my lungs in a vice-grip, choking off my air for a few terrifying seconds.

This can't be happening.

This _can't_ be _happening!_

Papers are scattered all across the coffee table in front of my parents. But not just any papers; no, these are my _diary_ pages, marked by my own familiar handwriting, screaming out my secrets for the world to see.

They have been torn from my diary like a butterfly ripped of its wings, translucent carcasses hanging limply over one another on the table's wooden surface. I see from the dates in some of the corners that it's not just from my current diary either – some of these are from last year, some even from the year before.

In his hands, my dad holds my current diary, the pale pink one with the white clouds all over the cover. I bought it because it made me think of sweet dreams, but right now this feels like a scene unfolding straight from my worst nightmare.

I try to yank it away from him, adrenaline buzzing through me so fast that blood roars in my ears, making me dizzy; my advances prove useless when Dad jumps up and steps away from me, easily holding it out of reach with his long arms.

"Give it back!" My words are loud but breathless, writhing with panic. "It's _mine!_ Give it _back!_" My tone is pleading, a whine, completely pathetic and furious, but I don't care that I'm acting like a child.

"SIT! DOWN!" Dad thunders.

He clamps one of his hands around my upper arm and hurtles me into the empty recliner beside the couch. I flop down gracelessly, knees bouncing up so fast with momentum that they whack me on my chin, making my teeth rattle; I cry out in pain, but he ignores me, marching purposefully over to the coffee table.

"Russell!" Mom whimpers. My eyes sweep over to her and see that she is crying, her face red and tear-streaked and her shoulders trembling like a baby bird. When she sees me looking at her, she ducks her head down and buries her face in her hands.

I sit in the recliner as if ropes are tying me in place; all I can do is watch as my dad rifles through _my_ diary pages, his eyes roving over _my_ words, _my_ secrets.

Dad picks up a few pages and holds them in front of him, lowering the reading glasses from the top of his head and onto the bridge of his nose. He clears his throat and rolls back his shoulders, like the mayor about to read a new law from a prestigious document.

I have never felt more helpless, or more humiliated, in my entire life; a blush sears through every inch of my skin, blasting red into every pore, burning me inside-out with mortification. Pressure pounds in my head, throbs behind my eyes, bangs at my temples, as if there is something, some sort of self-preserving instinct, that is try to shove its way out of my skull.

_Dear Lord Jesus, help me, help me please!_ I'm going to faint, oh my God, I'm light-headed and I'm going to faint, help me, oh God…

Dad speaks, and it sounds like he is talking underwater, far away, a train zooming past him and muffling his words together.

"'Dear Diary: Today, I quit cheerleading. I couldn't stand the way I felt when looking at my teammates half-dressed; I was undeniably aroused. I hated how _wrong_ I felt, so I knew the only way to make it right would be to leave the Cheerios, even though it greatly pains me to do so.'"

I try to say 'stop it,' but the words lodge in my throat, stuck like peanut butter. I try to swallow but choke on them, clutching at my chest as I try to catch my breath. I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to look at him, or my mom, or anything without feeling like my skin will scorch off from the shame and embarrassment coursing through every vein.

_Help me, Jesus, help me…_

Dad flips to another page, the rustling of papers sounding for all the world like the _crack-boom _of gunshots.

"'Dear Diary: Today, Sam told me that he loves me. I did what I did best: I lied to him and told him that I love him, too. But the problem is, I don't love him. It is impossible for me to _ever_ love him, because I don't like boys. I like girls. There is one girl in particular whom I can't stop thinking about. You know whom I'm talking about, Diary. Rachel Berry. As much as I try to tell myself I hate her, I'm worried that I won't be able to keep fooling myself for long without everything falling apart.'"

_Oh, God, please, are You there? Help me!_

"Stop it." Rather than the fierce demand I intend, the words come out as a strangled whisper.

Dad ignores me, or maybe he doesn't hear; either way, he goes on to a different page and continues.

"'Dear Diary: I can no longer deny it: I am a lesbian. There, I said it. I'm gay. Wow, it feels good to finally admit it for once. I'll say it again, and again, and again: I'm gay, I'm gay, I'm gay! I can no longer fight back who I really am. The fact is, I like girls, and there's nothing that I, or anybody else for that matter, can do about it.'"

Something furry nudges at my feet; I look down and see Buttercup sitting right in front of me, staring up with a serious, concerned look in her dark brown eyes. I am rooted to the spot, unable to move forward even to pet my dog, but having her beside me at least provides a few ounces of strength to draw upon.

Dad puts my diary pages back onto the coffee table, sealing them there with a loud _smack_ of his palm. He draws himself up to his full height, folds his arms over his broad chest, and just freaking _stares_ at me, which is unnerving as hell. I see him swallow heavily, his Adam's apple jumping up and down, but other than that, he is the picture of composed fury (there's an oxymoron for you).

Desperate to not have to look at my dad, my eyes swing over to my mom, who is sitting far back in the couch, staring down at her hands in her lap, letting her tears drip silently down her face, off her chin, onto the back of her fingers.

Since it's obvious that I'm not going to be getting any help or back-up from her, I turn back to Dad. I've never seen him look this way before. His face is set in hard lines, as if he's aged a decade in as many minutes. His eyebrows are arched downward in anger; his mouth is set in a hard, grim line; and his shoulders are rigid and squared.

But it's his eyes that are my undoing: they shine with unbridled sadness, disappointment, and betrayal.

Those are the worst of all: not the anger, not the fury, but the sadness, the disappointment, the betrayal, as if I have failed him as a daughter.

Tears well up in my eyes. "Daddy," I whisper, my lower lip and chin trembling. My heart aches, as if it is being crushed with a sledgehammer.

"How could you do this to us?" he asks. He sounds so _hurt_, almost confused. My tears spill over, splashing down my heated face. Seriously, you could probably fry an egg on my hot cheeks right now.

"We have given you everything you ever asked for," he says. "We provided for you, loved you. We raised you with the proper values of right and wrong. And then you go and choose _this?_ You decide to completely go against God and your family, choosing to be _gay?_" He shakes his head back and forth, his face openly wounded, saying 'gay' the way most people would say 'murderer' or 'terrorist.'

"N-no, it's not a choice, Daddy! It's just how I am; I didn't choose it at all!"

"Sinning. Is. A. _Choice_." He spits out the words from behind a wall of clenched teeth, each syllable smacking me across my face.

I jump out of the recliner, nearly tripping over Buttercup in the process, and hold my fists in front of my body in prayer-position, desperate for my parents to understand.

The tears keep leaking down my face, like a faulty pipe that won't shut off. My heart zooms dangerously fast, making me worry that I may collapse.

"Daddy, _please_, I can't help it!" I sniffle against a running nose, wiping at my face with my cardigan sleeve. "You read my diary; you know I can't help it! I wouldn't _choose_ to be something that my family considers wrong; it's just, it's just who I am."

"I should have known something was going on with you," Dad says softly, in such a way that leaves me unsure if he's talking to me or to his self. He turns to my mom and catches her eye, sharing a frown, before looking back to me with a tortured expression. My heart throbs in my chest, shooting a brief stab of pain all through my ribs.

"You've been distant lately," he says, his tone a mixture of accusation and self-loathing, as if he's torn between blaming me or his own parenting skills. "You've been detached, you talk back to us and disrespect our wishes, and you care way too much about that Rachel Berry girl and her terrible influence excuse-for-parents. Have you been having _relations_ with her, Quinn?"

I didn't think it was possible to full-body blush any more than I already am, but his blunt question proves me wrong.

"What?" I gasp for air, clawing at my chest as if physically trying to open my shrinking airway. "Of course not! We're just, we're just, we're friends, Dad, okay?"

"But you do think of girls that way, don't you? You think of them sexually?" His tone rises with impatience and anger.

I hang my head, stare at the floor. A shallow breath spasms from my lungs as another line of tears dribbles down my face.

My silence tells him everything.

"How could you do this to us?" Dad's words are heavy with disbelief and betrayal, and – worst of all –an underlying tremor of disgust. "To God, to your mother and I? Where did we go wrong?"

"D-Daddy, p-please," I sob, staring at him desperately through tear-filled eyes. My entire body is shivering; my legs wobble, threatening to give out. "I'm still your l-li-little girl; I'm still your Qu-Quinnie."

Dad's expression turns into unreadable stone. "Not anymore. No child of mine would ever disgrace this family in such a vile way."

My eyes widen, making the tears gush down faster. This can't be happening to me; this can't be happening; this is _not_ happening.

"You have ten minutes," he says, turning his back to me. "Ten minutes to pack your things and leave. You are not going to stay here anymore. Not while you continue to make such horrible choices. As soon as you decide to change your ways, you can come back to us."

My legs finally loose all strength, sending me crashing onto my knees. I dig my hands into the floor, watching as my tears land, marring the carpet with dark, wet splotches. A loud sob escapes my sore throat.

I push myself to shaking legs and run over to my dad, clutching at the bottom of his shirt, tugging him to face me. "Please, Dad, don't! I promise I'll be good; I pr-promise I'll be good, please!" I am in complete hysterics, wrapping my arms around his middle and clinging to his front.

He pushes me away from him. "Go get your things. This hurts your mother and I worse than it hurts you. Now _go_, before I throw you out of here before you can get anything. I'm being nice enough to let you do that. What are you just standing there for? You have only ten minutes, _go, now!_"

I'm too busy staring at my mother. At how she's watching us with this miserable expression, still silently crying, sunk back into the couch cushions as if she's trying to make herself disappear. I want to _scream_ at her; how can she do _nothing?_ How can she just let this happen to me? She's supposed to be my mother; she's supposed to protect and take care of me!

"Damn it, Quinn, _nine_ minutes now!"

Dad's shout makes me practically leap from my skin. I sprint away, up the stairs, to my bedroom. Buttercup follow closely behind, jumping onto my bed and barking at me worriedly.

I dash into the bathroom connected with my room and sink to my knees in front of the toilet. I lift the lid and dry-heave from the very depths of my knotted, convulsing stomach. Beads of sweat break along my forehead, the back of my neck; I gag up nothing a few more times before lying down on the cold tiled floor and forcing myself to try to breathe normally again.

Buttercup licks at my face; I wrap my arms around her, hugging her tightly, and sob into her golden fur. After several seconds of this, I realize that I am wasting time; I probably only have about seven or eight minutes now to pack as much as I can before I am kicked out of my own house, my own home, from my own family.

I pull myself up and brush off the knees of my tights, unable to stop sniffling or to halt the quivering of my chin. I try to halt the tears, but of course a few stubborn ones manage to slip out.

As I turn to leave my bathroom, I catch sight of my reflection.

Bright red, splotchy face. Black raccoon-like rings under my eyes, smeared mascara and eyeliner, looking for all the world like mushy ashes, as if my eyes are being charred off from their sockets. Snot in my nose. My face screwed up tight, like a baby holding back a wail.

My God, I'm pathetic. I look so _ugly_, so undesirable. No wonder nobody wants me. Not Rachel, not Sam, even though I threw myself at both of them. My parents don't even want me. How utterly worthless do you have to be for your own _parents _to want to get rid of you?

Quickly, with trembling fingers, I tear off some toilet paper and wipe the crap off from my eyes and blow my nose clean. I splash cold water onto my face, the sensation uncomfortable against my hot skin.

As I pat my face dry with a towel, Dad's voice booms up all the way from downstairs.

"FIVE MINUTES!"

Panic flares throughout my entire body; I start running back and forth in a small circle, like an absolute idiot. What do I do? Where do I go? What do I need to grab first?

I run to my closet and pull out my red duffel bag from the top shelf. It says 'Quinn Fabray: Captain' on the front in bold black stitching. It was my old Cheerios duffel, left to collect dust after I quit the team. But it's the roomiest bag I have, even more so than my suitcases.

I throw shirts, mini-dresses, tank tops, random articles of clothing into the bag, not bothering to fold them, just yanking them out of the closet. Their white plastic hangers swing ominously behind, like the bare bones of the skeletons in my closet finally revealed.

I throw in some shoes, some scarves. I hurry over to my dresser and grab a fistful of cardigans, socks, underwear, and bras from my drawers.

I scurry back into my bathroom, throw my toothbrush, hairbrush, and make-up kit into my bag. It's about half-full now, so I can't take as much as I want (like my special hairdryer, or my expensive new curling iron).

Back into my bedroom I go, my footsteps so fast and crazed that I almost trip twice. Buttercup barks, up on my bed again, her tail and back stiff with worry.

"THREE MINUTES!"

_Damn it, damn it, damn it, fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!_

And even though it's kind of lame, I don't even care about the 'coolness' implications right now: without any hesitation, I throw my favorite blanket into my bag, too, needing to have at least one token of security with me.

My eyes rove my room, jumping here, there, everywhere, for any last minute items I've forgotten. My gaze lands on one of the Scripture verses on my walls.

Jeremiah 29:11 – "For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD. "Plans to prosper you and not to harm you; plans to give you hope and a future."

I stand with muscles pulled taught as piano chords; fists clenched at my sides; chest heaving with sharp breathes that flare my nostrils like a dragon puffing smoke. I have never been so angry in my entire life.

I grit my teeth so hard, I'm surprised they don't grind into nubs. A fresh dose of fury zips through me, so hot and fast that I see red. Unthinkingly, I grab my Bible from my nightstand and hurl it with all of my might at the wall, letting loose a screech like a banshee as the book slams against the 'Jer' of 'Jeremiah' and clatters to the floor.

Yeah, some fucking plans He has for me! If this is His idea to 'prosper' me and give me a 'future,' then count me out; I don't want anything to do with Him.

"ONE MINUTE!"

I snap out of my trance, the anger melting away and replaced by despair. Sixty seconds to pack away the parts of my life I want to take with me? I need more time! I need not to feel so stressed and pressured right now.

But this is how it is, and I am but a tiny slice of nothing in this household now, a non-entity, unfit to live here and breathe my parents' air.

I select a few novels at random from my bookshelf, toss in my cell phone charger, my laptop, and my laptop charger; the duffel is now completely full, and considerably heavier.

"THIRTY SECONDS!"

The zipper drags shut around the mouth of the bag, and I hate how final the sound is. I sling the strap over my shoulder, hardly noticing the pain of it biting into my shoulder, considering my insides feel a whole lot worse. What is physical pain, really, in comparison to emotional pain?

Whoever said 'sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never hurt me,' got it _completely _wrong. Sure, sticks and stones can break your bones, but words can damn well break your fucking _soul_, and, let me tell you, that pain is a thousand times more intense.

As I start to leave my bedroom, I catch sight of my bureau's mirror. There, in the corner, is the school picture of Rachel. Big, cheesy grin. Sunny dress. Too-short bangs.

Impulsively, I march over to it and pluck it free, place it carefully into a side-pocket of my bag, making sure it doesn't get torn or bent.

"FIFTEEN SECONDS! YOU BETTER BE DOWN HERE, OR I WILL THROW YOU OUT MYSELF!"

I don't need to be told twice.

While ducking out of my room, I flip the light off behind me. There is no time for nostalgia, no time to stand in my doorway for a few moments and soak in the heaviness of leaving my childhood home, my private room, behind.

I dash down the stairs, duffel bag slamming against my hip with each stride. Buttercup is right at my heels. When I descend the bottom step, I find Mom and Dad waiting for me, standing in front of the open front door.

Outside, it is far darker than it should be at five o'clock: a storm has started raging, sending the rain to fall in sheets; a flash of lightning lights up the darkness, and a boom of thunder sounds through the air.

Dad's arms are crossed, face blank and hard as a rock; Mom, on the other hand, is visibly shaking, wringing her hands in front of her and darting her eyes left to right.

I stop when I reach them; my eyes connect with Mom's, and in that moment that she actually looks at me, I see inside of her. And like yet _another_ freaking boot to my stomach, I know. It's written all over her face.

"You knew!"

I think back to the signs: her weirdly sad faces when we talked about Rachel; her pleading looks at dinnertime when Dad and I would argue; a few weeks ago when she hugged me as if she never wanted to let go after I told her that I would choose not to be gay.

All along, she somehow _knew_. She knew my secret, she knew that I liked girls, and yet she never reached out to me. She never lent a helping hand. And now that her baby is being thrown from its nest, she is too afraid of Dad and his commanding ways to swoop in and save me.

"You knew, this whole time, that I was gay, and you never did anything? You never asked me about it?" I have never wanted to slap anybody more than I do now; I settle for shooting her with the fiercest, most betrayed and horrified glower I can muster. "And now you're letting your daughter be kicked from her house? … Hel-_loo? _… SAY SOMETHING, DAMN IT!"

Mom shrinks into the doorframe, shaking her head vehemently, crying even harder. "Oh, h-honey, I – "

"Don't you dare!" Dad says, glaring at me. "Don't upset your mother any further with ridiculous accusations. Now get out of here, and don't come back until you're willing to make the right choices!"

Buttercup whines; I look down into her sad eyes, and it suddenly hits me like a bag of bricks: I'm leaving her behind. My furry best friend, the one who is always there for me, giving me unconditional love and support even more than my diaries had. (Yeah, look where _those_ had gotten me.)

Ignoring Dad's command, I kneel down and hug Buttercup to me, burying my face in the back of her neck. She licks my hand and whines again.

When I stand back up, I grab my backpack and purse from the spot where I tossed them earlier. Then, I collect every iota of confidence and strength that is left in me. It's not much, but hopefully it's enough.

"I'm taking her with me," I tell Dad, speaking quietly because I know that if I use anything other than a whisper, my voice will crack apart. "She's my dog, and she's coming with me."

"Like hell she is," Dad says. "That dog is the family dog, and seeing as you have proven you want nothing to do with this family, she doesn't belong to you. Now get _out_ of my house!"

I open my mouth to protest, but he lunges toward me, his fingers crushing into my arms so furiously that I can already feel the bruises forming. I cry out, maybe in pain, maybe in outrage, I don't know; all I know is that Dad is flinging me right out of my home, sending me careening into the pouring-down rain like a bag of garbage thrown to the curb.

I watch helplessly as the door slams shut, so hard that it makes the multi-colored glass sign reading 'Home, Sweet Home' swing right off of the door and shatter to a million little pieces on the concrete below. Yeah, I know how you feel, buddy.

Wind roars in my ears like a wakening beast; I am already soaked to my bones from the cold, relentless rain. Shivering all over from a thousand different reasons, I stumble over to my car and climb inside, tossing my backpack and duffel bag into the back seats.

It takes me way longer than it should to buckle up and start the car, since my fingers are shaking like a leaf. I back out of my driveway, sniffling and holding back fresh tears, trying to tell myself that everything is going to be okay.

But it's not. Telling myself that I'm fine and dandy right now is as pointless as slapping a Band-Aid onto a gunshot wound; it does nothing more than to flimsily cover up the problem, not helping at all to stop the blood and pain from gushing out.

I think back to last month, when I kissed Rachel. I remember that sensation I had afterward, like I was falling and falling, just waiting for the moment to come when I would crash.

And after weeks of build-up, it finally happened.

I've crashed.


	21. Chapter 21

Wowza, guys, thank you _soooooooo_ much for the incredible reviews. :D I love to hear your opinions, especially when they are as passionate as they were toward the last chapter. The reason that I update so often is for all of those people out there - even if there are only a handful of them - who read this and enjoy it and let it be known, so when I get feedback, it encourages me to keep going no matter what.

I meant to have this up sooner, but I've been pretty busy the past couple of days. I promise to never leave you guys for too long! I hope this next installment is up to par. I'll stop babbling now, and let you guys get on with the story. ;)

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><p><strong>CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE<strong>

Just a few minutes after driving away from my house, it's obvious I need to pull over.

My windshield wipers are going to town with clearing the pelting rain away, but it's still difficult to see the road. That, combined with the dozens of unpleasant emotions warring inside of me to make my concentration fuzzy and often not on the road at all, tells me that it's dangerous for me to continue driving like this.

I pull into the parking lot of the park Rachel and I visited when I came out to her. Wow, that feels like forever, like it happened a _year_ ago rather than a mere month.

Since it's raining a freaking hurricane outside, it's no surprise at all that the park is completely deserted, sporting my car as its sole occupant.

I shift my gears into park and cut the engine. Now that the windshield wipers are off, the sound of raindrop after raindrop attacking the roof of my car is louder than ever. In the distance, thunder cracks, so abrupt and fierce that it makes me give a little jump in my seat.

My body pulses with unbridled energy; my skin is still hot from the lingering blush, coated in a thin layer of sweat and rainwater. My heart speeds along at this scared, frenzied beat, as if it is trying to run far, far away from the disaster that just unfolded at my house. Hell, I don't blame it, but the poor thing seems to have missed the memo that we were _kicked out_; there's no need to run when you're not worthy enough to be chased after.

I unbuckle my seatbelt so I can pull my legs up on the seat and lean against the door, shifting into a more comfortable position. Closing my eyes, I rest my chin on top of my knees, hug my legs against my chest, and listen to the thrashing storm outside.

_At least I'm safe, _I think. _At least I have a car to act as warm shelter, and my own credit card for emergencies… Yeah, this definitely qualifies as the emergency of a lifetime._

_Inhale. Exhale. Iiiiiinhaaaaale. Eeeexhaaaale. Good, good._

No. Not good. Not good at all.

There is nothing fucking _good_ about this.

Fighting back another wave of rising emotion, I bite down on my bottom lip so hard that I draw a speck of blood. I am determined not to cry anymore. I _hate_ crying; I always feel so pathetic and weak.

I mean, how incredibly emo is it to sit in your car and weep while a storm rages outside? All I need is some moody 'my life sucks' music and black fingernails to match an all-black wardrobe, and I'm set.

_Game plan, Fabray. You need a game plan._

I need somewhere to go. Someone who will understand, who won't turn me away.

Rachel pops into my mind right away.

The yearning that zaps all through me, pulling at my heart, scares me; it's alarming how much I _need_ her right now. I crave that human touch: one of her amazing hugs seems like the best medicine.

I grab my purse from its spot on the passenger seat and retrieve my phone from inside. Taking a deep breath to steady the nervousness and anxiety still racking through my system, I select her number from the 'Favorites' option on my contacts.

As the phone rings, I try my best to pull myself together. I want to remain composed and calm when I speak to her. I don't want to come across as some crybaby loser.

My eyes start to burn with that annoyingly familiar pinch of moisture.

_I will not cry; I will not cry; I will not cry._

"Hello?" Rachel answers, coming in clear and perfectly enunciated even over the phone line.

Just hearing her voice makes my entire body convulse, face twisting as tears squeeze out of screwed-shut eyes.

_Damn it._

"Hello? … Quinn, are you there?"

I'm so overcome with emotion that I can't speak; I fan my heated face with my free hand, hating the way I can feel my pulse pounding in every pressure point of my body.

"Hello?"

Seriously, why can't they invent windshield wipers for your eyes? That, or we should have evolved as a species by now to have eyelashes that are extendable and dexterous enough to pop further out and brush away our tears for us.

An uncertain laugh from Rachel. "Quinn?"

"R-Rachel!" I wail. "They found – " My burning lungs gasp for air, cutting me off. "– ow-out! M-my parents found out, and th-they k-kicked me out. I have nowhere, n-nowhere to go, please, Rachel, I can't br-breathe, I can't" I wheeze like an old smoker "br-breathe!"

"Quinn! Oh my God, slow down, I can barely understand you. You're crying too hard and talking too fast; just take some deep breaths, okay, sweetie? What's wrong?"

I babble some more, this tangled mess of words and whimpers, before finally taking rattling breaths and collecting myself enough to form coherent sentences.

"My parents found out," I manage to say. "My dad kicked me out, and it's storming outside, and I have nowhere to go, and I'm scared, and, and…"

"Hey, hey now," Rachel interrupts in a soft, soothing voice. "Deep breaths, okay? You're working yourself into a lather. Listen to me. You don't have 'nowhere to go'; you have me, and my dads, and you can definitely come over to my house and stay with us, okay?"

"O-okay."

"Are you driving right now?"

"No, I'm in the parking lot at the park by my house."

"Good. Stay there, okay? I don't want you driving while you're so overwhelmed. My dads and I will come pick you up, and one of them will drive your car back to our house with us. All right?"

"Yes." I recline my seat back, concentrate on breathing properly. "I'll wait here."

"All right; good. I'll see you soon."

"Thank you, Rachel. Thank you so, so much."

Her voice is shy and reverent, like it always is when she's about to say something she regards as very special to her. "That's what friends are for, Quinn. I want you to know that you can always count on me to be there for you."

The smallest but purest bit of warmth is able to thaw some of the ice from my aching heart.

"Rach, stop it." A sound that is half-laugh and half-cry tumbles from my lips, which are – impossibly, ludicrously – lifting into the tiniest of smiles. "You're going to make me cry even harder."

"Right, right, sorry," she says with a giggle. It's the saddest giggle I've ever heard. "Stay put. We'll be right there."

"Okay. Bye."

I hang up and hug the phone to my chest, hoping that maybe I can soak up some more of her warmth through osmosis.

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><p>About ten minutes later, two blaring headlights reflect in my rearview mirror.<p>

I lift up in my seat and twist around to see a black SUV with tinted windows pulling up behind my car, stopping almost bumper-to-bumper.

A few seconds later, the Berry clan hops out from their respective places, struggling against the crazy wind to shut the car doors behind them. They jog over to my car, gripping each other around the waists as they fight forward together against the storm.

I unlock my doors for them, grab my purse, and hop out of the driver's seat, leaving the keys in the ignition for either of Rachel's dads; Hiram quickly takes my place, giving my arm the briefest of squeezes as we slide past each other. He has no way of knowing that he's grabbing at the bruises my dad inflicted; I hope he didn't see me wince.

I open the back door and let Leroy haul up my backpack and duffel bag in either hand.

A slender arm encircles my waist, pulling me into the side of a diminutive creature; I turn my head to see Rachel, looking up at me through sheets of rain, her eyes filled with concern. Wetness plasters her ponytail on top of her head, and her bangs are split apart into uneven sections – she looks like a goober. An adorable goober.

I feel just a tad bit better already.

Together, we hurry over to the SUV. Leroy has just finished putting my bags in the trunk. By the time Rachel and I buckle up in the back – effectively getting the leather seats wet – he is getting behind the wheel.

"Damn," he says. I'd forgotten how deep and manly his voice was; I smile to myself a little bit. "It's raining cats and dogs out there." I immediately think of Buttercup at that, and the smile slips right off.

Rachel reaches over and intertwines our fingers. "I guess we don't have to worry about a shower tonight, huh?" she asks, biting at the corner of her lower lip, pulling it into a slant.

I can only nod. She squeezes my hand; I squeeze back. Our eyes lock; we communicate a thousand words to each other without saying one.

Leroy backs out of the parking lot and turns onto the main road. It's incredibly silent inside of the car for a few minutes. Well, other than the relentless rainfall and the occasional boom of thunder. Nobody seems to know what to say. It's not exactly awkward or uncomfortable, but it's definitely one of those _loud_ silences, if you know what I mean.

It's not like I blame them; I think we're all nonverbally agreeing to wait until we get to their house until trying to talk about it, so we can wait until I'm in range of Kleenexes before I start crying again. But right now, I feel far too drained and tired to cry; my head throbs will a dull ache and my bones feel weighed down.

Leroy keeps checking the rearview mirror to see how I'm doing. I think it's sweet of him, but it makes me worried that he's going to get into a wreck, which gives my stomach yet another series of knots to unjumble.

Rachel's thumb massages against my palm and the side of my hand, rubbing a relaxing circular pattern.

"How about some music?" Leroy suggests. He turns the radio on; it's a classical station or something, playing an instrumental tune of soft piano notes and the occasional violin and harp.

A few songs later, we're pulling into the driveway of the Berry household. Hiram arrives just a second or two after us.

"You girls go ahead inside the house," Leroy says, tossing Rachel the car keys. "I'll get your stuff, Quinn."

"Thank you," I say, ducking out of the car and running up to the front porch. Thankfully there's an awning here to keep away the rain; I've had enough for a freaking week, jeez.

Rachel selects the house key from the key ring and unlocks it; we head inside at the same time, jamming ourselves together half-in and half-out, our hips colliding.

"Ouch!" Rachel chuckles. I chuckle a little, too, but mine sounds forced even to my own ears.

"After you," she says, stepping back and doing a little curtsy. I try to smile, but my mouth feels weirdly both heavy and limp.

Shortly after Rachel and I enter the house, Hiram and Leroy walk in. I reach out to take my bags from Leroy, but Hiram intercepts my open arms, surprising me with a hug.

My eyes widen, and my initial reaction is to stiffen, but after a second, my uncertainty vanishes and I find myself hugging him back.

When I pull away, I'm embarrassed to say that I maybe got just a _little_ choked up at Hiram's simple act of kindness. Like, enough to have to turn away so I can swipe my wet cardigan under my freshly wet eyes, which of course did nothing but make the entire side of my face moist. That's a weird word, isn't it? 'Moist.'

I see that Rachel has taken my bags from Leroy for me, and she is comically struggling to hold them both up; seriously, she's like pitching to the side and everything from their combined weight. And the worst-slash-best part is, she's smiling in this bright, 'I can fool 'em' way, as if she's got it all under control, even though her eyes are wide and one of them is actually twitching.

Leroy pulls me into a side-hug and ruffles the top of my head. I blush and smile up at him; he smiles back, a soft, close-lipped one that tells me he knows just how hard this is on me.

"Here, let me help you with that," I tell Rachel, walking over and taking my backpack from its precarious spot half-slung on her shoulder.

She nearly topples over from the sudden unbalance but manages to right herself just in time. "Thanks."

I shrug. "You took some weight off my shoulders; I figured I should do the same for you." We smile tiny smiles at each other, nodding meaningfully.

Together, we trek up to her bedroom. We enter, she closes the door behind us, and then we set my bags onto the floor.

"All right," Rachel says, taking my hands and sitting down beside me on the edge of her bed. "It's just the two of us now. Go ahead and let it all out. It will make you feel better, I promise."

I draw a shaky, audible breath. "God, I bet I look like total hell right now," I say, staring at the floor. I utter a jagged, self-loathing laugh. "I bet our classmates would just _love_ to see this; Quinn Fabray looking like shit, completely miserable and knocked right off her high horse."

"Hey," Rachel says, somehow both sternly and gently. She cups my chin with her fingertips and lifts my head up, making me meet her eyes. Her brow furrows.

I search the amber-brown depths of her irises, discover the sadness and concern shining in them.

"Don't say that. You could never look like…like _shit_," she says, the briefest of flinches passing over her face at saying such an unladylike word. "You are the prettiest girl I've ever met, both inside and out. And as for what our classmates would think, I say: forget about them. They're all immature jerks who love poking their noses into other people's lives because they don't have an interesting enough one of their own."

"Do you really mean that?" I ask, picking apart my cuticles. "You think I'm pretty on the inside?"

Rachel's mouth falls open; the edges around her eyes soften, though her brow draws into even more of a pucker.

She takes her fingers away from my chin and moves them to my crooked headband, adjusting it into place. "Of course," she says quietly. "Actually, I'm very pleased to say that, after getting to know you so well this past month, I discovered that who you are on the inside is even _more_ beautiful than who you are on the outside. I deemed such a feat as impossible, since your looks are incredibly astounding, but you proved me wrong." Her lips pull up into a shy but earnest smile.

I can only stare at her: my heart quickens; my stomach turns to mush.

"I have come to value and respect you so much, Quinn; I honestly don't know what I would do without you. So just think about that, okay? I know that you must feel completely abandoned and horrible right now, but you will always be important and needed to at least one person in your life," she says, leaning in to move the clasp of my silver cross necklace up its chain, stopping when it's at the back of my neck.

When she pulls away, I catch her scent: her familiar lavender-vanilla is mixed with the musk of rainwater, and it's like the olfactory equivalent of a security blanket.

Kleenex should hire me as its spokesperson, because tears are spilling from my eyes again, so fast that they don't even have time to well up. It's weird how her kind words and attentive doting make my heart feel as if it's breaking all over again, throwing me right back into how I felt when my parents were basically telling me I was a worthless daughter, in so many words.

Maybe it's because this sort of gentleness and unconditional love is what I long for from them but apparently am never going to get; all I know is that Rachel's tenderness digs deeper into all of my fresh wounds, reopening those damn floodgates to pour from my eyes.

She scoots closer, slipping her arms around my waist and pulling me toward her. Gently, she guides my head down onto her shoulder; my cheek presses against the cool, slippery satin of her shirt.

I sob into her, so hard that hiccups punctuate my heaving breaths. "They d-didn't want me, Rachel! Th-they don't l-love me!" I wrap my arms around her, clinging to her tiny frame tightly and desperately.

"It hurts, oh God, it hurts," I blubber, barely audible from both my crying and my mouth being muffled by her shoulder.

Rachel holds me in her arms, rubbing my back slowly and rhythmically with one hand while stroking my hair with the other.

She touches me as if I am something fragile and precious that deserves preserving.

She touches me as if I am worthy, as if I am loved.

And it's the strangest mixture of comfort and torture, both mending and slicing my heart at the same time. I can only cry harder, for so many different reasons, my emotions all tangled together in one great clump.

"_Shhh,_" she whispers, unwavering from her caring touches, not loosening her warm embrace.

"_Shhh,_" she whispers, that one simple word coming from her sweet voice acting as the most consoling and effective of lullabies.

She rocks with me back and forth, in small, barely perceptible motions, just enough to be relaxing.

When my sobs subside into mere whimpers, the tears still falling swiftly but not in torrents, she begins to sing.

Softly, so softly, but with so much power. She is the rawest and most beautiful I have ever heard her. There is no ringing bravado, no belting, no future-Broadway-star-hamming-it-up – it's just _her_, it's just Rachel, telling me a story, insisting of a promise, through the loveliest of melodies.

"_When the rain is falling in your face_

_And the whole world is on your case_

_I could offer you a warm embrace_

_To make you feel my love."_

It's 'Make You Feel My Love,' originally by Bob Dylan, but Rachel sings it in the same vulnerable, heartbreakingly honest way that Adele does in her album.

"_When the evening shadows and the stars appear_

_And there is no one there to dry your tears_

_I could hold you for a million years_

_To make you feel my love."_

My tears intensify, pooling into Rachel's shoulder; my heart feels like it's going to burst from the mixture of emotions brewing in it. Rachel and I hug each other even tighter, our bodies merged into one, her warmth washing over me in waves.

"_I know you haven't made your mind up yet_

_But I would never do you wrong_

_I've known it from the moment that we met_

_No doubt in my mind where you belong._

_I'd go hungry_

_I'd go black-and-blue_

_I'd go crawling down the avenue_

_No, there's nothing that I wouldn't do_

_To make you feel my love."_

Slowly, the tears stop leaking from my sore eyes. And though I still feel like a large part of my world has been smashed into smithereens, there's no denying how comforted and secure I am right now.

"_The storms are raging on the rolling sea_

_And on the highway of regret_

_Though winds of change are blowing wild and free,_

_You ain't seen nothing like me yet._

"_I could make you happy,_

_Make your dreams come true_

_Nothing that I wouldn't do_

_Go to the ends of the Earth for you_

_To make you feel my love…"_

Rachel whispers the last line rather than sings it. "To make you feel my love."

She kisses me on top of my head, a lingering tenderness: so much promise and protection in this one kiss, vowing to never leave me, to always be my friend, to be someone whom I can rely on and trust.

A tiredness so heavy and thick it's practically palpable descends over me, like a dark cloak. My eyes stay shut; my stuffed-up breathing turns less ragged and shallow, becoming deeper, almost snore-like; I lean against Rachel…. She's so comfy…. And tiny…. She smells good….

The next thing I know, I've drifted off within her arms, sinking into a sleep so exhausted and deep that not even my most persistent subconscious could find me.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel truly safe.


	22. Chapter 22

Thanks again for all of the luhvalee reviews; you guys never fail to brighten my day! XD Just a quick thing I want to say to all of the people whom I message with: I'm sorry that sometimes it takes me so long to reply (sometimes even days); I promise I'm not ignoring any of you, I just get side-tracked pretty easily. :-/ I think you are all awesome and fun, so I'll try to be better about responding faster, but sometimes I just get lazy. Anyway, here's the next chapter. :D Enjoy!

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><p><strong>CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO<strong>

My top and bottom eyelids peel apart so painfully that I fear I may have just ripped out some eyelashes. A hot, gritty texture permeates my eyes and the area around them. Disoriented, I stretch my sore muscles, flinching as my vision adjusts to the sun-lit room.

_Wha…what? _Why am I still wearing these sticky clothes? Why is my room so freaking _pink?_ And what's with all the glasses of water lined up on the nightstand?

It takes me a handful of groggy seconds to realize where I am: the Berry household, Rachel's bedroom.

So, unfortunately, yesterday wasn't just some incredibly bad and realistic dream. The nightmare at my own house with my parents is actually the reality.

_Holy crap!_

I shoot up in bed so fast that I am hit with a wave of dizziness, knocking a random pillow out from under my neck and sending it flying onto the floor.

Panic flares through me, speeding up my heart to a crazy tune.

_School, school, school, damn it, it's Thursday and what time is it and ohmyGod I'm late for school!_

I whip the purple blanket off of me from my spot at the end of the bed. Beneath me, the bed is still made up neatly with its tucked-in comforter; I must have fallen asleep yesterday in Rachel's arms, completely conked out, and now I'm going to be late for school!

The initial panic and the dizziness subside, lulling my heart back into a normal rhythm and regulating my quickened breaths, when I remember that tardiness isn't really that big of a deal. I've obviously endured much worse than a brief lecture from Principal Figgins. Besides, back when I ruled the school, I skipped all the time with little to no consequences.

The clock reads '11:00 A.M.' I roll out of bed and rub the grime from my eyes, wondering why Rachel or her fathers didn't wake me.

That's when I see a piece of paper set near the spot where I was sleeping. I pluck it from the floral comforter, recognizing Rachel's neat, evenly-spaced handwriting right away.

_Good morning (or afternoon, you sleepyhead), _the note says. My eyebrows rise at the length of it; I love Rachel and all, but hasn't she ever heard that brevity is the soul of wit?

_You fell asleep last evening while I was singing to you (do not be embarrassed; my beautiful pitch and soothing vocal qualities combined with the incredible stress and exhaustion of your ordeal make sense to have worked together to put you out cold), even sleeping throughout dinner. I retired to one of the guest rooms and let you have my bed; I hope the blanket and pillow I fixed you with were comfortable._

_I tried more than once to get you up for school, but you merely grunted and waved me away, still half-asleep. My dads and I both figured that you need all the extra rest you can get. So, never you worry, I called Principal Figgins from your cell phone (to ensure the proper caller ID), honed my excellent and innate acting abilities, and told him that I was your mother and that you have fallen ill and need a day off from school. He believed me and sends along his regards and well wishes._

_I hope you are not upset with me for not trying harder to get you up, but you were sleeping like a log, and I'm just trying to look out for your best interests. I promise to take detailed notes for you in the classes we share._

_Help yourself to anything you need; leftover dinner is in the fridge, and breakfast muffins are in the microwave._

_Love,_

_Rachel Barbra Berry_ (And, of course, she put a gold star sticker at the end of her loopy, girlie signature.)

I shake my head at her essay of a note, a smile playing at my lips, before setting it back on her bed.

First things first: a shower. _Ick,_ I'm sticky with sweat and dried rainwater, and my hair is tangled and greasy. Disgusting.

I go down the hall to the guest bathroom. I flick on the lights and can't help but smile: it's just how I remembered it. Nautical theme – framed seashells hung on the cute wallpaper. The toilet has one of those light blue seat covers that look like they're made of carpet.

After rummaging through the cabinets and pulling out two towels, I lock the bathroom's door and strip out of my sticky, musky clothes.

My silver cross necklace comes off last. I'm surprised when it doesn't sear the flesh right from my fingers as I undo the clasp. I feel like whipping it across the room, or tossing it down the sink, forever lost in the drain, but I can't bring myself to do either.

Instead, I ball it into my fist, the edges of the cross digging hard enough into my palm to leave crescent-shaped indentations. Then, after closing my eyes and taking some deep breaths to control the sudden pounding of my heart, I set the necklace down on the countertop behind me, letting it crisscross itself into a shining clump.

Completely naked now, I turn and face the mirror.

I watch as my face twists at the sight before me: messy hair, as if a hyperactive and oil-slicked bird tried to build a nest overnight; under my eyes, shadows of leftover make-up swirl in discoloration, like Revlon bruises.

And – oh joyous and glorious day! – what are the cherries on top of my appearance but a few fresh zits sprouted randomly across my skin like a lazily plotted game of Connect the Dots.

The bruises on my arms inflicted from my dad's angry hands aren't as bad as I'd expected them to turn out; hell, they're hardly even noticeable. I wish I could say that toward the bruises on my _heart_, though; those are sore as hell, tendering at even the slightest poke.

It's weird seeing myself like this; I'm usually so composed, all edges tucked in and wrinkles smoothed away, pretty as a picture. Not trying to sound like a conceited bitch, but it's true – my stunning outward appearance has always helped me coast by in life, has always guaranteed the adoration and admiration of almost everyone I meet.

Something cold and heavy slams down on my heart, dragging it down toward my navel. I swallow thickly and cover my face with shaking hands.

But then a scene from yesterday unravels behind my eyelids, echoes inside my ears.

"_Do you really mean that? You think I'm pretty on the inside?"_

_Rachel's surprised and sad expression, softening into a genuine earnestness when she says, "Of course. Actually, I'm pleased to have discovered that who you are on the inside is even _more _beautiful than who you are on the outside."_

Warmth spills through me; my heart lifts back up, dusts itself off. Smiling, I step into the shower, letting the hot water wash away all the dirt and discord from the day before.

And while I lather myself up with the array of lavender-vanilla-scented bath products, I find myself singing a reprise of the Twain/Bublé mash-up that Rachel and I created.

Happiness: fake it 'til you make it, right?

* * *

><p>After my shower, I snitch Rachel's blow dryer from her private bathroom; my hair is naturally straight, but if it goes unmanaged after being washed, it can get frizzy and sometimes even sport this weird swoop in the back.<p>

Next, I heave my duffel bag onto Rachel's bed and start sifting through it; I grab the requisite clean underwear and bra before choosing a pair of my comfiest gray lounge pants paired with my gray cotton shirt with the elbow-length maroon sleeves. It's a look I call 'cozy-chic' (yeah, yeah; at least it sounds better than 'lazy slob').

As I get dressed, brush my teeth, wash my face, and put my hair into a spunky set of pigtails, I make myself focus on each action, being as meticulous and slow-going as possible.

I'll think about _any_ boring thing if it means fighting away that insistent ache in my chest and battling the horrible memories of my so-called "parents" from yesterday.

The only time I almost lose my tight grip on shoving back the black fog of emotions is when I think of Buttercup; coughing against a sudden lump in my throat, I make my way downstairs to treat my grumbling stomach. Considering I skipped dinner last night and breakfast this morning, I am _starving_.

While eating some delicious banana nut muffins with a glass of orange juice, I am flooded by unwanted thought after unwanted thought.

I can't help but keep thinking about what's going to happen now. And it all makes my stomach churn in a way that makes it hard to keep eating my food.

Where do I go from here? Yes, I've crashed, which means I need to begin cleaning up the debris and get started on putting myself back together as soon as possible. I've never been one to idly stand by; my life isn't going to start getting better until I make a conscious effort to strive for happiness and acceptance with myself.

I'm no dummy, though; I know that's a task _waaayyy_ easier said than done. If it were as simple as that, then there wouldn't even be any sadness or identity crises in the world; everyone would be strutting around sneezing rainbows and the magical golden dust of that ever-elusive True Happiness.

The most burning question of them all – the one that scalds every corner of my mind – however, is this: Will my parents tell anyone about me?

Will they talk with our church's – no, _their_ church's – pastor? Or maybe they'll tell the whole church about my gayness, imploring everyone to pray for me so they're _real_ Quinnie can finally 'return home' or whatever.

Will they tell any of my family members? Maybe Frannie, who will no doubt have the smirking satisfaction that she has finally beat me once and for all and won the title of being the Perfect Daughter.

And, of course, I wonder if they're thinking about me right now. Does my dad regret throwing me out? Does my mom regret not stopping him? Do either of them really care about me at all, or have they always just loved _their_ version of me?

All of these questions with nary an answer in sight. I'm just glad that not a single tear pops up; hopefully, I've cried myself out, dried up my tear ducts for good. I've cried more in the past two months than I usually would in two _years_.

I also have my religion to consider – or newfound _lack _of religion, possibly. I just…I don't know _what_ to believe anymore. I can't just suddenly flick a switch and think that God doesn't exist. There's something in my heart that tells me that would be wrong. Not wrong in the societal way, but wrong in the denying _myself_ way. So it's not like I don't believe _of_ God; right now, I just don't believe _in_ Him.

I don't believe that He's there for me or that He really cares about me. He let my parents throw me out; His teachings and His people tell me that it's wrong to be who I am. Why would I want to waste my time praying to an entity like that? I have better things to do than waste my time with someone who obviously doesn't want me.

I check the time: one o'clock. _Ugh!_ I still have several hours before Rachel returns from school. I feel lonely, all by myself in this big fancy house.

Well, at least there's a flat-screen TV with a practically endless amount of channels.

I curl up on the couch with one of the novels I brought, the TV playing the soothingly cheery and redundant sound of some cheesy sitcom's laugh track in the background, and let my mind finally wander to a reality other than my own.

Because even a place where dragons breathe fire at an unsuspecting village is more peaceful than the world where I live.

* * *

><p>About five minutes after the time school ends, Rachel calls my cell phone.<p>

"Hey, stranger," I say with an unbidden grin, sitting up on the couch and tucking my legs under my lap. I do a little bounce atop the cushion.

"Hey yourself," she says, a warm but careful brand of kindness in her words. "How are you feeling?"

"Better. I mean, not _great_ or anything, but the day off from school and responsibilities is exactly what I needed." I twirl the ends of one of my stubby pigtails with my hand not cradling the phone to my ear.

"Thanks," I continue, voice going soft of its own accord. "For last night, for letting me sleep in, for calling and checking up on me right now – for all of it."

"You are _very_ welcome, Quinn. At first, I had my reservations with letting you miss school, seeing as how I hold my perfect attendance record very near and dear to my heart. But I figured that most people do not particularly care about such menial things as attendance records."

"And," she adds, "you really were sleeping like an angel. It was very cute, actually." She giggles; I blush.

"So, are you coming home now? Or do you have to stay after school for something?"

"Nope; I'll be there in about ten minutes."

"Great," I say with a smile, tiny wings fluttering in my stomach. "I can't wait." Then I make this stupid _heh-heh_ sound at my unintentional rhyme.

Rachel gives an amused snort. "See you soon."

"See ya." I hang up and shake my head at myself, unable to keep from grinning like an idiot.

* * *

><p>About three minutes later, my phone rings again. Assuming it's Rachel, I don't bother looking at the screen before accepting the call.<p>

"Forget something?"

"No," says a male voice that is definitely _not_ Rachel's. "But apparently you did."

I crinkle my nose. "Puck?" I pull my phone away from my ear and read the screen; my guess is confirmed.

"Yeah, it's me," he says in a tone reeking of '_duh_.' "Berry won't tell me why she was _letting_ you miss school," I can practically hear his sarcastic finger quotes, "or how come you were 'sleeping like an angel' at her house last night. So, since she won't spill, I figured I'd go straight to the source."

"_Oh, Noah, give it up!"_ I hear Rachel demand in the background. _"She'll tell you when she's ready."_

"She'll tell me what?" Puck asks her impatiently. Then, to me: "You'll tell me _what,_ Quinn?"

I sigh, long and loud. It's not like I wasn't going to call him later today and tell him; he's definitely at the very top of my confidant list. Still, it doesn't make it any easier to put my situation into words.

"My parents found out," I say, not needing to specify. "They kicked me out of my house, so I'm staying at Rachel's for now." It hurts worse than I thought it would – voicing it gives the situation more reality, more power. My stomach twists; my chest squeezes.

Silence fills the phone line. A jagged intake of breath. Then: "Shit. God, Quinn, I'm so, I'm…I'm _sooo_ sorry to hear this, f'realz. I wish you would have called me."

"Well, you know, I would have, but I was too busy crying my eyes out and bemoaning the world," I say, but my joke falls flats. Probably because it's so true. I clear my throat against the awkwardness. "I mean, um, don't worry about it, okay? Like I said, I'm at Rachel's, so it's not like I was sleeping in my car."

"I know," he says. "But I have your back. You know that, right?"

"Definitely," I say, smiling despite everything. "You're a great friend, Puck. And an over-all great guy, too, as much as you seem intent on proving otherwise to our classmates."

He makes a sort of chuckling sound that's rife with emotion. "I'll see you soon."

"What?" My eyebrows draw together.

"I'm going to follow Berry back to her house. There's no way I'm not going to check on you right now. A group of horny, bikini-clad babes couldn't keep me away," he says with life-or-death seriousness.

I have to laugh at that. When I hear Rachel talking fast and righteously in the background, ripping Puck a new one (the only distinct things I catch are her saying something like "she needs her rest" and "you can visit tomorrow"), I laugh even harder.

"You're now on speakerphone, Quinn," Puck says, sounding frustrated, surely due to Rachel chastising him. "Tell Rachel that you want me to come over."

"I want Puck to come over," I say, grinning like a fool.

"See? The lady has spoken," says Puck, having to raise his voice in order to be heard over Rachel's protests. "Put on a pretty shade of lipstick or somethin'; the Puckster will be there soon."

I roll my eyes, still grinning, as my chest squeezes again – but this time it's a good squeeze, the type of sensation that you savor.

"Try not to kill each other, okay, children?" I tell a still squabbling Rachel and Puck before disconnecting the call.

I briefly consider putting on some lipstick and a little bit of make-up, per Puck's request (even though he had been joking).

But I quickly wave that idea away, because I don't need to wear any make-up around my friends. Not even concealor or blush.

That's the best thing about them: they love me for _me_, blemishes and all.

And if that doesn't make a girl feel pretty, then I don't know what does.

* * *

><p>Ten minutes later, I receive a text from Rachel informing me that she and "Noah" just remembered that they both have to stay after school for something, so they'll get here in about forty-five minutes or so.<p>

I'm a bit suspicious of them, but considering Rachel is involved with at least a dozen clubs and organizations at school, and knowing how persuasive she is and could easily convince Puck to join her for a meeting, it's not really that unlikely.

About an hour later, I've finished my novel (I'm a fast reader) and am browsing through the channel selections when the doorknob jiggles and the front door pops open.

"Quinn?" Rachel calls.

"In the living room," I shout.

"Damn, Berry," says Puck's impressed voice, "I forgot how cool your digs are."

They both enter the living room; Puck looks around with an awed expression while Rachel purses her lips at his grubby tennis shoes, as if afraid they'll track dirt everywhere.

"You've seen her 'digs' before?" I ask. Both of their heads swivel toward me, expressions softening.

"Yeah," Puck says, shrugging casually as he walks over to the couch. "We used to go up to her room and make-out a lot."

Rachel slaps his arm and makes a whiny, offended noise. "Noah!"

He winks at her before plopping down beside me, so fast that the springs groan; Rachel shoots him another feisty glare before sitting on my other side. But when she sees that I'm giggling at their exchange, her glare turns into a reluctantly amused smile.

"So, how you holdin' up?" Puck asks.

"I'm managing."

"I think she is doing _astoundingly _well for someone in her predicament," Rachel says, with ample amounts of pride on my behalf. I toss her a grateful smile before looking back to Puck.

Puck takes one of my hands into his bigger one, while Rachel slips her fingers through my other hand. It's like a chain of friendship and love, anchoring me away from the dark, thrashing seas of loneliness and depression.

"To be honest, I'm actually pretty pissed right now," says Puck. "No, like, really, _really_ pissed. Can I please go to your parents' house and punch the crap outta them for you?"

I smirk. "How about no?"

"Do you at least want me to slash their tires? Egg them? Toilet paper the house? _Anything?_" Puck asks earnestly, eyes widening.

"Noah, as much as I would love to see Quinn's parents receive punishment equal to the despair and evilness they have wrought onto their daughter, I must remind you that vandalizing the Fabray property could just result in _you_ getting in trouble," Rachel says. "And I'll have you know that I am disgusted with you even _thinking_ of egging someone, for that is more of an insult to the poor dead chicks' mothers than anything else."

"She's got a point." I squeeze Puck's hand. "Cheap revenge on my parents isn't worth you getting thrown into juvie again. But, thanks; I really do appreciate how much you want to help."

"For what it's worth," he says, "I used to think your mom was kind of a MILF. But now I don't even think she's worthy to lick the Puckmeister's shoes, let alone dance the naked tango with him."

I'm caught between a disgusted protest and a laugh at his typical Puckness; I settle for a sound that's something in between. "Good to know."

"So, uh, how did they find out, anyway?" he asks, licking his lips. "That you play for the other team."

"They found my diaries," I say, ignoring the feeling in my stomach – like the tip of a rusty knife is digging right behind my belly button. I take a deep breath, cringing at the memory. "I don't know _how_ they found them, but they did. My dad was furious; my mom was silent. It was like something out of a bad horror movie." I shudder.

"Well, it's over now," Rachel insists, using her hand not holding mine to tug affectionately at the end of one of my pigtails. She nods at me emphatically. "The worst that could happen, happened, right? So now there's no more waiting for the bomb to drop."

"I was thinking more along the lines of, 'the nightmare's just begun,'" I say. "I mean, where do I go from here?"

"The only place you _can_ go," says Puck. "Up."

"And we'll be here with you on your journey back to the top," says Rachel, "waiting in the wings to catch you if you fall again."

"You guys are the best."

Puck shrugs and nods. "Pretty much."

Rachel rolls her eyes at him before winking at me. "We try."

I laugh. "C'mere, you two." I pull them into my sides until we're group-hugging.

"You smell really good," Puck says when they pull back to their own cushions. "Actually, you smell like Rachel always does."

"I used her shampoo and body wash," I explain, before turning to the girl in question and asking, "That okay?"

"Help yourself," she says. "I'm glad to see that my signature scent is starting to catch on. It's a key indicator of the good taste and influence I'll have when I'm a Broadway star with her own perfume line, much in the vein of Elizabeth Taylor's incredibly successful fragrances."

"So, are you going to come out to anyone else anytime soon?" he asks me, ignoring Rachel's superior tone and manic gleam of determination in her eyes.

"Noah," Rachel scolds, "she'll come out when she's ready."

"I don't know," I say.

It's the truth: I really have no clue as to when I'll be ready to tell anyone else my secret. Or, more importantly, when my secret will stop _being_ a secret and start being _me,_ a simple yet profound part of who I am rather than a shameful thing to keep hidden.

"You gotta know that our other friends won't mind," Puck says. "Sure, I bet they'll be hella surprised, but after the initial shock, it won't matter."

"Considering how well my _last_ trip out of the closet went…" I trail off, lifting my eyebrows.

"Yeah, but you were shoved out last time. Now, you'll be able to go at your own pace," he points out.

"And if that pace wants to wait until after graduation, then so be it," Rachel says, fixing Puck with a stern look before turning to me. "Though I can't pretend that I don't think it would be beneficial to you to extend your support group to our Glee family, I do understand coming out prematurely can possibly damage your confidence. However, in contradiction, I think that the sooner you actively embrace who you really are, the better."

"Thanks, guys," I say. "You've definitely given me a lot to think about."

"Sucks for you," Puck mutters to himself. "I _hate_ thinking."

"As is evident by the many harebrained schemes you pull off," Rachel murmurs.

"Hey!" Puck snaps. "I heard that! I don't have a 'hairy brain.'" He mimics her in an overly high-pitched, overly-snooty tone.

"Excuse me, but I do _not_ sound like tha – "

"_Shhh-shhh-shhh_." I yank them both into my sides again, pulling my hands out of theirs so I can pat them on their heads. "Settle down, children. _Can you feel the love tonight?_" I begin singing in a jokingly off-key, slow voice.

"You sound like a dying cat," says Puck, snickering. "Which is depressing, 'cause lions sing that song."

"You sound like Puck when he tries to hit a high note," Rachel says, cackling indulgently at her own oh-so-witty humor.

"You sound like Berry is _about_ to sound when I put my foot up her ass," Puck warns, even though it's a pointlessly empty threat, considering he would never lay even a pinkie of danger on any girl, especially Rachel.

"It sounds like I need a drink," I grumble.

They both surprise me by kissing me on their side of my face, making my heart flutter unexpectedly.

"Can't stay mad at us for long," says Puck with a shit-eating grin, batting his long lashes.

"We're too adorable," Rachel agrees, snuggling into my side like a sleepy kitten.

"I think I liked you two better when you were fighting," I laugh. Seriously, against each other, they're bad, but teamed up together, they're _worse._

"Face it, Quinn," Puck says, making his eyes get all big and vulnerable like Puss in Boots. "You'll never be able to resist the Puckleberry charm."

Rachel looks like she's about to kill him for using their 'couple name.'

"True that, Puckerman," I laugh, shaking my head at my crazy best friends. "True that."


	23. Chapter 23

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE**

Rachel's parents arrive home about an hour later.

As they walk in, Puck is heading out. Rachel and I stand behind him in the doorway.

"Hey, Dad One and Dad Two!" Puck greets jovially, reaching out and clapping Hiram and Leroy on the back. I swap looks with Rachel; she's horrified, but I'm amused.

They chuckle good-naturedly; Rachel's stiffened posture relaxes.

"You're not going to stay for dinner?" Hiram asks, taking off his tweed jacket and hanging it on the coat rack.

"Wish I could, but I've gotta go pick my sis up from her friend's house," says Puck. "Too bad I'll have to miss out on some of your delicious grub."

"Next time, then," Leroy grins.

Rachel cuts her dad a look, as if to say, 'Don't encourage him.'

"_Hasta a_ later," Puck says, seizing Rachel in a loose headlock and rubbing his fingers atop her scalp, making some hair stick up.

She ducks out of his grip. "Neanderthal!" she hisses, running her palm over her hair in quick strokes to flatten down the static.

"You know you love me," he winks at her before leaning in and pecking my laughing cheek with a kiss.

"Why does Quinn get the sweet goodbye, and I get the juvenile one?" Rachel demands.

"Because Quinn would have socked me in the gut, but you just retaliate by using words like 'Neanderthal' and 'juvenile,'" Puck says. He tosses another wave over his shoulder and exits the house, letting Rachel's chuckling dads shut the door behind him.

"He is _impossible_," Rachel mutters, throwing her arms up in the air.

"But what would we do without him, really?" I tease.

"Well, for one thing, we could live without fear of our hair getting rumpled," Rachel says. "And my vocal chords wouldn't have to go through the strain of yelling at him."

I can't wipe off the amused smirk. "You let him rile you up too much."

"You mock me now, but when it's your precious hair on the receiving line, we'll see who's laughing," Rachel says.

"Ladies, ladies, please." Hiram holds up his hands. "Save the drama fo' yo' mama." He bobs his head like a chicken and snaps his fingers side-to-side with sassiness.

I crack up while Rachel groans in faux-embarrassment. It feels weird to laugh so hard, pulling at my stomach with light happiness rather than the heavy dread of a sob like yesterday.

"I taught him that," Leroy says proudly. "Well, not the nodding and snapping part; that's kind of embarrassing, sweetie." He grimaces and pats his husband's shoulder.

"Papa thinks he's so clever," Rachel tells me, shaking her head and grinning. "He says that every time he thinks I'm dramatic. You know, since I have no mother to actually bring the drama to, then that means I have to settle down." She gives me a disbelieving look, like, 'Me? Settle down? _Psssh_.'

"I think it's genius," I tell her dads, grinning from ear to ear.

She nudges me in the side. "_Quinn!_"

"_Rachel!_" I tease, nudging her back.

"Traitor!"

"Shorty!"

Rachel draws in a fake, overly-loud gasp. "How dare you bring my height into the equation? That's crossing a line."

"Sorry; next time, I'll try not to be so _short_ with you. I'll let my maturity _grow_ to the _height_ of kindness," I say, unable to resist.

Hiram and Leroy head into the kitchen, guffawing. "We'll leave you to at it while we fix dinner," Leroy calls over his shoulder. "If you attack each other, please try not to get blood on the carpet. We just had it washed."

Once they're out of earshot, Rachel turns back to me and narrows her twinkling eyes.

"You know, if they weren't so cute on you, I would yank out your pigtails for making fun of me," she says, stepping up on her tiptoes to capture the ends of my hair.

Rachel tugs them lightly, giggling; I let out a tiny squeal of delighted protest and take a step backward. Since she's still holding onto my hair, she stumbles after me, shrieking with a playful giddiness at the sudden movement.

When we come to a stop, she leans into me for balance; the tips of her golden flats press against my bare toes, and her small breasts smush against mine so close that I worry she will feel the way my heart has launched itself into frenzied beats.

Rachel looks up at me, our eyes locking; feeling her body right against mine, and gazing right into those sparkling amber irises, makes me feel a new sensation right between my legs, this hungry ache.

She bites down on her lower lip and flicks my pigtails like a carriage-rider flicking the reins of a horse; freaked out by my throbbing nether regions and the way I suddenly can't stop staring at her mouth, I jump away from her, letting my silky strands slip right through her fingers.

Confusion flicks across her face; she tilts her head and starts to say something, but I swiftly cut her off.

"How about we go upstairs, and you can fill me in on what I missed at school?" I suggest, hoping I don't sound as breathless to her as I do to myself. "Race ya to your room! Last one up is a rotten egg!"

I whip away, hoping the redness of my face will cool off soon, and start running to the stairs. She follows after me, her competitive nature kicking in, laughing and complaining about how it's unfair that I had a head start.

My feet chase after one another, hoping that I'll be able to leave that surge of desire far, far behind.

Lord knows I don't need yet _another_ confusing thing in my life right now.

* * *

><p>"This is delicious, Mr. Berry," I say, taking another hearty bite of the linguini with spices and basil. "I can't stop eating it!" My taste buds are boogie dancing from the sheer <em>awesomeness<em> partying across my tongue.

"Quinn, _please,_" Leroy grins, "Mr. Berry is my father. Call me Leroy. But thank you very much."

"Plus, when you say 'Mr. Berry,' we don't know which one of us you're talking to," Hiram points out.

"You know, Quinn, this is actually _my_ recipe," Rachel says innocently, lifting her shoulders in a little shrug. "I taught my daddy the key to making sure the sauce doesn't get too thick."

Leroy shakes his head at her. "Babygirl, we've talked about this little thing you do sometimes, called 'stealing someone's thunder.'"

"I guess I should've prepared some humble pie to serve for dessert," Hiram says.

"Wouldn't want to do that," I say. "I'm pretty sure Rachel's allergic." I toss a wink to her indignant expression as her fathers crack up.

"Why do they bring out the taunting side of you?" Rachel asks me. She whirls on them next. "You two are _terrible_ influences on poor, susceptible Quinn. Just _terrible._"

"Aw, honey, you gotta learn to laugh at yourself more often," Leroy says. "It's the only way to make life bearable."

"Sorry," Rachel mumbles, twirling her fork around in her pasta. "I'm just used to having to defend myself at school all the time. People are so quick to attack me."

"They're just jealous of your talent," Hiram says. "No one at your school could hold a candle to your star quality." His eyes jump over to me, widening. "Er, I mean, besides Quinn, of course."

I make a face and bat my hand in the air. "No, no, you're right. Rachel's definitely the most talented person. Not just at school, but in all of Lima."

Rachel beams at me; I beam back.

"Okay, now you're just being insane," Leroy's low voice makes his chuckle sound like thunder. "_All_ of Lima? Are you forgetting who else would be included there?" He gestures between his self and Hiram.

"Yes, Daddy, you are incredibly talented and taught me all I know," Rachel says in a tone that shows she is just appeasing him. "Now let's get back to eating this wonderful meal that could not have been made without a very special person…" She smiles sweetly at Leroy.

Leroy grins back at her, grateful for the compliment.

"…Me!" Rachel finishes, dissolving into giggles at the scowl Leroy now wears. I can't help but laugh with her.

"Kidding, kidding," she insists. "How about some humble pie after all?"

"Laughing at yourself," I say with an approving nod. "I like it."

"I'm nothing if not a quick learner," Rachel says with a boastful grin. Then she realizes that she just said yet _another_ conceited thing, bonking her forehead with the heel of her hand at her slip-up.

This time we're _all_ laughing, and let me tell you, the sound of overlapping chortles paired with the feeling of warmth I get is even more delicious than the pasta.

* * *

><p>After dinner, Rachel does the dishes while Leroy and Hiram tell me to remain seated at the table.<p>

I fidget in my seat, nerves tickling my stomach. I have an illogical fear that I'm about to get lectured and be in trouble for something.

Rachel's movements with the dishes are slow and purposeful; she keeps the water at a low, quiet volume. I'm positive that she is setting herself up to be able to eavesdrop effectively on our conversation.

"How are you holding up, Quinn?" Leroy asks, genuine concern in his dark brown eyes.

"Um." In my lap, I hold my hands, letting one of my thumbs rub the other in a series of upward strokes. "I've been better, but, you know…I could be a lot worse." I try for an easygoing shrug-and-smile combo, but they both end up falling flat.

"You can be brutally honest with us, honey," says Hiram with a small, gentle smile.

"Thanks, but really, I-I'm fine." At their skeptical expressions I quickly rephrase, "Well, okay, maybe not _fine,_ but I'm, I'm okay." My face grows hot beneath their stares.

"Just know that our ears are always open to anything you want to ask or talk about," Hiram says.

"Thanks," I manage a teensy but sincere smile.

"So, uhm," I look down at the table before forcing myself to make eye-contact again, tension filling my muscles as I prepare to ask the most nagging and weighted question of all. "How long can I stay here?"

Without giving them time to reply, I launch into a string of babbles to plead on my behalf. "I don't want to be a nuisance and put you out; I can pay monthly or weekly rent, and, um, I-I'll definitely help out with chores, and I don't do drugs or alcohol or smoke or anything gross like that, and I – "

"Quinn!" Leroy mercifully interrupts. He chuckles, one half of his mouth shooting upward in a crooked smile. "Slow down. Take some breaths. _Relax._"

"You're welcome to stay with us for as long as you want," Hiram says. "Whether for a day, a month, or a year – we're in no hurry to send you packing."

I release the giant breath I'd been holding; the tension in my muscles exhales with it. "Wait, what? Wow, really, are you serious? That's..." I force myself to slow down and stop babbling. "Thank you. Thank you both so very, _very _much."

"I think you mean 'so Berry, _Berry_ much,'" Hiram says with an audaciously proud smile.

Leroy lifts one eyebrow at him before turning to me, his expression one of complete 'WTF.' "I think the real question is, do you actually want to stay here and have to deal with _that_" he jerks a thumb toward Hiram's obliviously beaming face "twenty-four/seven? 'Cause if I were you, sweetie, I would get out while you still can."

"Oh, and, Babygirl?" Leroy says, casually turning to look over his shoulder at the back of Rachel. "If you're going to eavesdrop instead of wash the dishes, you could at least try to be a little subtle. Why don't you come on over here; this next part is for both of you anyway."

I wonder how on earth he knew that Rachel's been scrubbing the same plate for the past five minutes, hands rhythmically circling just the center of the dish as she cocked her head backward, ears perked for, indeed, prime eavesdropping position.

Startled at getting caught, the plate slips from Rachel's soapy hands, landing with a clatter into the sink. Quickly, she rinses her hands, dries them on a towel, and sits down in the chair beside mine.

Her beam is as oblivious as Hiram's (though there is a faint flush to her cheeks). She folds her hands in her lap and says, so innocently that I almost believe her (such a damn good actress), "Oh, hey, guys. What did I miss?" She even takes her charade as far as tilting her head and just barely raising her eyebrows in curiosity.

"'What did I miss,'" Leroy echoes, shaking his head. "As if you can fool us. You know full well that we just told Quinn she's welcome here as long as she'd like."

Rachel emits a loud squeal and throws her arms around me, taking me enough by surprise that I say a stupid-sounding, "Oh-ho!"

"We're going to have _sooooooo_ much fun together, Quinn! It'll be just like the sister I never had! Like one very long sleepover! I know that you having to live here rather than your own home is really nothing to rejoice about, but if you think of it in a positive way, then you can embrace all of the great times that are just waiting to be had!" She squeezes her arms around me like a python (practically making my eyes pop out) before letting go; after she releases, I slouch over, almost fall out of the chair. My lungs wheeze, finally able to breathe again.

Hiram and Leroy are gently telling Rachel to "settle down" and something about letting me breathe and "remember what we talked about with respecting other people's personal bubbles?", but it's all white noise.

Because I'm battling my own sounds, a myriad of thoughts now swirling through my head.

I'm thinking, _Wow. It's official; I really am gone from my house and living somewhere else._

I'm thinking, _Will I ever see my parents again?_

I'm thinking, _What about Buttercup?_

I'm thinking, _As bizarre as this all is, I'm actually pretty excited about rooming in Rachel's house._

And I'm thinking, perhaps most loudly and grudgingly of all, for some reason, _Her _sister? _She considers me to be on the way to becoming like a _sister _to her? … Why does this bother me so much? I should be honored!_

Hiram is addressing both Rachel and me now, so I shove away my thoughts and jump my eyes over to his, focusing on his voice.

"We need to set some ground rules first," he says. "You girls are to go to bed each night at a respectable hour, not talking until dawn, especially on school nights."

"Speaking of school, we expect that you both maintain your grades and extracurriculars," Leroy adds.

"Rachel, you are expected to follow your regular chores," says Hiram, "and, Quinn, your responsibilities will be keeping your room tidy, the occasional sweeping or dusting of the house, and switching off with dish duty."

"Does that sound fair?" Leroy asks us, tone and eyes serious.

"It sounds _more_ than fair," I say, breaking out into a huge grin. "Thank you both; you don't know how much this means to me."

Leroy and Hiram share a brief but profound look; Leroy looks concerned and wistful, while Hiram looks like he's struggling not to convey some guarded emotion.

I run over and surprise them both with a practically NFL-worthy tackle-hug. My heart soars along with my flailing limbs. "I won't let you down," I whisper to them.

"We know, sweetie," Hiram says, voice strangely thick. "We know."

Rachel comes over and joins the group hug, adding to the tangle of tight arms, to the toasty warmth of so much body heat.

And I think: _It's a good thing there's no dessert; this moment is sweet enough on its own._

* * *

><p>"You can use this room," Rachel says, opening the door to the bedroom across from hers.<p>

I step through the familiar threshold; it's just like I remembered. Robin's-egg-blue walls. Fluffy white bed with yellow, orange, and red pillows. Blonde-wood décor and chic black mini-curtains over the oval window.

"It's perfect," I say, smiling.

But it's a bittersweet smile. Because even though I did fall in love with this room when Rachel gave me her house tour last month, the fact is, this isn't my _real_ bedroom. This isn't my _home_. And so staying here just feels like bunking in a particularly cozy hotel, except a bit more familiar and open.

We set my duffel bag, backpack, and purse down on the floor. Our arms now free, Rachel pulls me in for a hug.

"I know it's not what you're used to, but I hope you feel safe and comfortable here," she says, her hands linking together against the small of my back.

I nestle my head into the crook of her neck, eyelids fluttering closed. "I feel very safe and comfortable here," I murmur, not necessarily referring to the bedroom.

Rachel kisses the top of my head, making my heart seep through my toes. "I'll be right across the hall if you need anything, okay?" she asks softly, resting her chin on top of my hair.

For a few glorious seconds, we just stand together, hugging, wrapped in each other's arms and consumed with that wonderful scent of lavender-vanilla, the scent that will forever be stamped into my nostrils' memory to equal Rachel. She is so impossibly adorable in her fleece pajama set of pale pink with tiny multi-colored butterflies all over it; the warmth and softness of her pajamas presses against my bare forearms.

Too soon for my liking (I would have been content with forever), she pulls away, a gentle and wide smile on her face, as she starts to head for the door.

"I get up every morning at exactly six o'clock to start my morning routine," she says. "What time do you leave for school?"

"It depends; usually around 8:15." First period starts at 8:30, and I only live – er, I only _lived_ – five minutes away. Rachel's house is a bit further from our school though.

"Well, I typically try to be out of here by 8, no later than 8:05," she says.

"Okay, I'll just set my alarm ten minutes earlier than usual," I shrug. "Do you take showers in the morning?"

As mundane as it is, I want to draw our conversation out as long as possible, craving her company, to have someone nearby who will distract my heart from bursting into tears.

"Yes," she says. "Do you?"

"Sometimes, but usually at night."

Rachel nods. "Well, even if we both need to take one in the morning, I have my bedroom's bathroom, and you can consider the bathroom down the hall to be all yours."

She's stepping halfway out the doorway now, her hand encircling the knob. "Goodnight, Quinn. Sweet dreams," she trills with a sunny grin.

I draw as much energy, confidence, and heat from that one smile as I can, needing to fill up on it like a battery. I need to stop the light in my heart from flickering out once I'm plunged into darkness, left alone in a room that's not really mine.

"Yeah, same to you," I say, my smile already dimming as she beings to close the door behind her.

Once it's _click_ed shut, my smile dies completely.

I flick off the overhead light but leave the fan on; now it's too dark, too many foreign shapes and shadows beckoning, so I succumb to not only opening the curtains of the window to let in some waning moonlight, but also to turning on the small flower-shaped nightlight plugged into the outlet near the bed.

Heaving a sigh that leaves me feeling emptier, as if I've just expelled some strength along with it, I take out my pigtails and run my fingers through my hair, combing out the tangles.

I think of Rachel complimenting my pigtails, saying how "adorable" she thinks they are. I flashback to my giggles, her stumbling after me, our torsos colliding together; to that wild feeling that flared between my legs, something untamed and on the prowl. Right now, the ghost of its memory tickles, taunting, but not strong enough to fully manifest.

Dragging my fingers through my hairline, I squeeze my eyes shut. I don't _need_ this right now. I don't need to turn into some weird, undersexed harlot who craves the virginal blood of unsuspecting young divas, and – _ugh!_ Do you see what happens when I let my psycho imagination run free? Better to keep the damn thing chained back with padlocks and anchors, for sure.

I set the alarm on my cell phone and put it on the nightstand before pulling back the bed's covers and climbing into the feathery fortress. _Ahhh! Sheer bliss!_ I think, sinking back into the pillows and snuggling the covers up past my shoulders.

Except it's not, really. 'Sheer bliss,' I mean.

Because nighttime is where the nightmares come out to play. It's the time where anything, even the most impossible or the most frightening, can happen. Monsters that don't exist by the light of day are up and roaming around as soon as that bedroom light is flicked out, ready to prance from behind the corners of the walls, the corners of your mind.

Right now, everything feels more real. More pressing. Lonelier. _Darker_.

My parents kicked me out; they don't want me; they don't love me for me. I should hate them, but as crazy as it is, I _miss_ them. How messed up is that? I actually miss them: my dad's loud, indulgent laugh, and how it was pretty much only directed to his own jokes; the way my mom would fuss over my clothes in the morning before I left for school, _tssk_ing over a wrinkle, smiling sweetly and proudly as she tugged down my shirt's hemline to smooth it out.

But the worst part is that I'm thinking about them in the past tense.

And, of course, I miss Buttercup, perhaps most of all. I want to hug her furry body, to pet the slope of her long nose, to giggle while she licks my hand, that reckless tail of hers unceasing to wag.

The tears don't come in my eyes; rather, they come in my heart, attacking the inside of my empty-feeling chest with sharp pinches and the occasional full-out punch.

I toss this way and that, trying to get comfortable within the bed, but it's a losing battle. I miss my old house. I miss my old life! I just want to be _normal, _to be _happy!_ Is that so much to ask? Is happiness such a ridiculous concept to deserve?

I bury my face into one of the pillows and scream.

Scream so passionately that I feel like my lungs may collapse.

Scream with so much fervor that I feel every muscle of my body bunching and pulling and straining.

A breathless, tearless sob leaves my ragged throat.

"Quinn? Are you awake?"

I shoot up from the pillow, heart pounding like a tribal drum. "Rachel?" I ask at a volume much louder and desperate than her whisper.

"Yeah," she says, still whispering. "I, um, I figured you may not be able to sleep, so I brought you a glass of water, and a special little friend."

My eyes blink in the room's semi-darkness, finally registering the drink in one hand and the stuffed animal in the other.

"Oh," I say, dropping my voice to an appropriate volume. "Thank you."

Rachel walks over and sets the water down on the nightstand before handing me the stuffed animal. Now that it's closer to me and in my grasp, it's obvious that it's a lion. And it's an adorable one, too, with a fluffy, mad-scientist-esque caramel-colored mane and a soft, butterscotch-colored body.

"Whenever I'm sad, my dads always bring me a glass of water," Rachel says. "Actually, they both brought one up to you at different times last night while you were sleeping in my room. I don't know if you noticed them when you woke up this morning, but that's why they were there. I'm not some weird hoarder of clear beverages, if that's what you were thinking."

I smile. "That's definitely not what I was thinking, but thanks."

She smiles back; the moonlight casts halos around her body, alternating rings of darkness and pure white light. She looks like an angel; this time, the pinch inside of my chest is a different kind of longing.

"So, um, what's this little guy's name?" I ask, hugging the lion and cuddling my face against the side of its furry head. It's crazy how much better I feel already, cuddling with an inanimate object. A damn cute and soft one, but an inanimate object nonetheless. "Or girl, I don't judge."

"Tony," she says, smile stretching further.

"Honey, Tony is a _tiger,_" I say, lifting my eyebrows. "This here is a _lion_."

Rachel snorts this most delicious unladylike snort ever; she claps her hand over her mouth for a moment before lowering it and responding, smirking, "I didn't name him after the Frosted Flakes mascot, silly. I named him after the prestigious Broadway Tony Awards."

My eyebrows jump higher. "And you were _how old_ when you got him?"

"Papa gave him to me for my ninth birthday."

"Still, not the kind of reasoning you'd expect to find behind the name of a stuffed animal," I say. "I once had a stuffed animal of a rabbit that I named Fluff-Fluff. And if you ever tell anyone that, I won't hesitate in killing you."

Rachel chuckles softly. "I'll keep that in mind."

I take a grateful swig of the water she brought me, loving the way its chilled temperature and overall smoothness washes down my sore throat.

"Are you all good?" Rachel asks. "Do you need anything else?"

_Yes,_ I think. _You._

The look of surprise I feel from the abrupt thought must reflect across my face, for Rachel asks, "What's wrong?"

"Oh, uh, nothing," I say, shrugging. "I'm just really tired." I fake a yawn, but it turns genuine halfway through. I actually _am_ pretty tired.

"Okay," she says. "I'll let you get some sleep. I should be in bed by now anyway."

"Goodnight," I call after her. "And thanks again."

"Goodnight," she calls back, slipping from the room – and from my grasp – yet again, the door travelling to its frame. "You are very welcome. Don't hesitate to knock if you need anything else." And _click_, the door shuts us apart once more.

But this time when I close my eyes and settle myself within the covers, I find myself drifting off to sleep, with Tony the Lion acting as my guardian, ready to fend off any of the demons that threaten to attack during the night.


	24. Chapter 24

A very belated "Happy Father's Day" to my unique, weird (in the most awesome way), and one-of-a-kind Dad. :D

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed. xD Honestly, you guys, feedback really is what keeps me going in frequently updating this. The reason it took me so long to write and post this chapter is because I got sort of discouraged there with the lack of reviews. So keep 'em coming, please, they really do mean a lot to me.

Special thanks to **APotterGal** for being unbelievably nice and supportive, and always knowing the best compliment to say to effectively fluff my ego. ;D

This chapter is dedicated to three of my good friends and strongest supporters with this story:

**Åse**, for being hilarious, very intuitive with the plotline, and more patient than I deserve with our messages.

**Jack-a-lackie**, for knowing just what to say to cheer me up, for being braver and stronger than most, and for always offering a warm hug when I need one.

And last but _absolutely_ not least, **Maddie**, for not being afraid to be her dorky self (in the best possible way), for her unyielding, out-of-this-world encouragement, and for having more faith in me than I do in myself sometimes.

All three of you girls keep me going and remind me that, even when I'm lonely, that doesn't necessarily mean I'm alone. :) Thank you. Xoxoxo.

To all those whom I message/interact with on here, and all my Tumblr friends: I love you all, too. You are all so funny, nice, and entertaining. Very much so. :D

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR<strong>

"He did _not!_"

"Yes, he did!" Rachel insists for the third time.

"There's no way Puck would ever watch anything that doesn't have things getting blown up or girls prancing around in bikinis," I say, slipping into my usual seat in the back of our English class.

Rachel sits down in hers, shooting me raised eyebrows, her mouth twitching from suppressed chuckles. "Quinn, I don't know if you've realized this yet, but Puck is actually quite the softie."

"Yeah, but if he knows you're telling me that all you guys watched while you were dating was Old Hollywood romances, I'm sure he wouldn't mind hiring a hit man to take you out," I say. "Especially since you mentioned he actually _cried _during some of them."

Rachel bursts into giggles, and I join her; the idea of Puck tearing up during a sentimental movie, no doubt spewing off some excuse of having something in his eye or whatever, is too much to handle, a disconcerting mixture of really adorable and really freaking weird.

"What's so funny, ladies?"

Our laughter dies right off at seeing Rick lowering himself backwards into the seat in front of mine, his forearms resting atop the chair as he stares at us with the cockiest of grins.

I look down at my notebook, pointedly ignoring him.

"So, Quinn." he tries again, – I swear, he's like a cockroach; nothing defeats him, not even a zombie apocalypse – clearing his throat and saying, "Where've you been lately? You weren't at school yesterday, and you weren't at Bible Study on Wednesday."

My eyes zip up at that, scrunching in confusion. "What? Since when do you go to Bible Study?"

Rick's parents are active members of the church, and actually pretty good friends with my parents, but Rick rarely attends service at all, and when he does, it's only for Sunday congregation, never for Wednesday night's Youth program.

"I resent your skeptical tone, Fabray," he practically purrs. "I'll have you know, I am a man of the church. That's what you like, right?"

Rachel makes a revolted noise; Rick ignores her, still making goo-goo eyes at me.

I bring stiffened hands up to the sides of my face, fingertips pressing against my temples. "It's like, every time I see you, I don't think it's possible for your advances to disgust me even more, but then there you go, proving me wrong yet again."

"Find somebody else to bother," Rachel says. "Quinn's too good for you." Her matter-of-fact tone and hard stare at him make a smile steal up my lips.

Rick opens his mouth to retaliate, but Santana and Brittany have arrived, making him quickly swivel around to face the front. He's not stupid enough to try anything around Santana and all her claims of hiding razorblades in her hair.

"Hey, Q," Santana says, sitting down in the seat to my right.

She shoots me a sunny smile, which is only so sunny in the first place to rub it in to Rachel that she is steadfastly ignoring her existence now. Santana has realized that insulting Rachel does not deter her (and just makes me and Brittany scold Santana), so she has instilled the cold shoulder as her new weapon. It's an oldie but goodie as far as isolation techniques go. I just wish Santana would lower her guard and learn to trust somebody else besides Brittany, me, and sometimes Puck (depending on her mood).

"Hey, guys," I say, widening my eyes at Santana in a way that reads 'knock it off.'

"Where were you yesterday?" Brittany asks me, leaning half out of her seat, elbows resting on Santana's desktop. She gives a friendly nod to Rachel before turning back to me with eyebrows raised in curiosity.

"I, um, had a wicked headache, so I stayed home from school," I say, fidgeting around.

"But you feel better now, right?" Santana inquiries, a seemingly bored and indifferent expression on her face – but the concern surfacing in her dark brown eyes gives her away.

She tries so hard to be uncaring, to put out this scathing, tough-girl image, but just like Puck, right in the middle of her insides, she's made up of soft, warm goo. It takes a great deal of patience at times, and quite a bit of digging to get there, but once she lets you see who she really is, it's so worth it.

Discomfort nags me, itching under my skin; I'm sick of lying to them.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I say. "No more headache." Well, at least that's not a lie.

"Good," says Brittany with a cheerful smile. "We missed you."

Santana makes a noncommittal grunting noise.

Rachel and I exchange meaningful looks; she nods encouragingly, mouth pursed softly, while I nibble upon my lower lip.

When Brittany and Santana are busy chatting with each other about how grueling yesterday's Cheerios practice was, Rachel whispers to me, "Would you feel better if you told them the truth? They of all people would understand."

I stare off into space, battling the desire to come clean and tell them versus the sudden urge to jump up and flee from the classroom and the sound of my classmates' loud, overlapping conversations. Finally, I whisper back to Rachel, unable to look anywhere but at my hands folded in my lap, "Soon. Not just yet, but…soon."

* * *

><p>I'm on my way to Glee after school when Rachel slides up next to me, appearing from thin air.<p>

"Hey, girlfriend," she trills, slipping an arm through mine and pulling me into her side. My heart gives a strange thump. "Make sure to sit front-and-center at practice today, okay?" Then she's pulling away, skipping off, and fluttering her fingers over her shoulder.

"Wait!" I call after her, laughing and confused at the randomness. But she's already turning the corner: going, going, gone.

* * *

><p>As per request, I sit front-and-center in the choir room five minutes later.<p>

This is Rachel's usual seat (well, on the days where she sits with Finn rather than with me), and I feel like I'm soaking up the essence of her cheerfulness, steadfast determination, and occasional bossiness just by sitting in it.

Santana and Brittany are already here, seated up at the top (where I _should_ be); San gave me grief obliging Rachel's command, while Britt jokingly (I hope – sometimes, you never know with her) asked if I were sitting in the bottom row rather than the top because the room was upside-down today and if that meant we were actually on the ceiling.

Most everybody has arrived by now, some shooting me strange glances at my new dwelling spot, while others just smile or ignore me altogether.

Finn and Sam stroll in next, chatting amicably about some new videogame with "really awesome special effects," according to the former.

But when they both approach their regular chairs and see me vacating their row, supposedly usurping Rachel's designated throne, their conversation falls away and scowls fall into place. Well, a scowl on Sam's face, but more of a confused frown on Finn's.

"Where's Rachel?" Finn demands, tone rife with suspicion, as if I've kidnapped her and am holding her hostage, all for the means of acquiring this oh-so-valuable blue plastic chair with rusting legs. 'Tis the gem of all gems, surely.

I shrug. "Beats me. Hello, by the way."

Finn gives a little nod, accusation vanishing from his face, but still not looking all that pleased. "Hey." He sits down in the spot that would be to Rachel's right, but is now to mine.

Sam slides into the chair on the other side of Finn, keeping his head down and avoiding eye-contact with me.

With all the avoidance and ignoring he's been doing since we broke up, I'm beginning to suspect Sam thinks I've turned into Medusa. I wonder if he's missed the memo that it doesn't matter if I really could turn him into stone, since he's already become like a human statue in the past month.

"So," Finn says, nodding again, a small but at least friendly smile turning up one corner of his mouth. "You feeling any better?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you were absent yesterday, so I figured you were sick."

"Ohhh, yeah, right; yes, I'm feeling a lot better, thank you. I'm not contagious, so don't worry about that." Unless you ask my parents; they would certainly think one particular part of me is ill and infectious, like a big oozing virus of my soul.

"I, uh, have the notes from Spanish class," Finn says, patting his backpack. "I usually wouldn't take notes, but I noticed you weren't there, and since you don't really talk to anyone in that class, I figured you wouldn't know who to ask to share notes with. And I have, like, half of the assignment finished. You can copy everything, you know, if you want." He shrugs in a casual enough manner, but his eyes keep darting back and forth and his stutters are noticeable.

If we're being blunt here, Finn is one of the last people I would ever chose to copy their homework or even their notes; he's not exactly on par with the straight-A-plus averages I'm constantly working to maintain.

Still, the gesture is thoughtful and nice; enough so that I find myself smiling gratefully and genuinely at him. Things like this remind me that, when his douche-y tendencies aren't flaring up, Finn can actually be a decent guy. Bumbling and infuriating, yes, but decent.

"Thanks, but Mr. Schuester already gave me some printed-out notes," I say. "And as far as the homework offer, I try to never copy anyone else's work; it's a strict moral code of mine." This isn't even a lie.

Finn's half-smile returns, dopey and satisfied. He gives another nod before shifting in his seat toward Sam and returning to their discussion of videogames.

I have the sudden urge to grab Sam by the shoulders, shake him, and ask him why he's still ignoring me. Why can't he at least try to be friends? Why is he still so upset?

I gather my courage and am just about to lean over Finn and strike up a conversation with Sam, no matter how awkward, when Mr. Schuester arrives, man-purse swinging jauntily on his shoulder.

It's weird, because Rachel hasn't gotten here yet, and she's _never_ late. Puck's missing, too, but that's more normal.

Worry begins to stir inside my stomach while Mr. Schue yaps on and on about his day, and about how he hopes we had a good day as well, and yadda yadda "ballad assignment" yadda yadda "so excited, you guys!"

"And next up we have a very special performance," he says, extending his arms wide toward the door. "Rachel and Puck have planned a duet for us!"

On cue, they stroll in, an acoustic guitar slung over Puck's torso and a gigantic grin on Rachel's face. Puck's posture is relaxed, while Rachel's is her usual regal one.

Her elbow rests inside Puck's, and with her queen-like stance, I half-expect Rachel to start waving with one fingers-together, swiveling hand. It's like the bodyguard and his princess or something; this thought makes me giggle.

"Hello, my Glee family," Rachel chirps, coming to a stop beside Puck, right in front of the piano… Directly across from my seat, actually.

"'Sup?" Puck nods toward everyone, a cocky smirk curling up his mouth.

"I planned on performing a romantic ballad for Finn today," Rachel says, tossing a wink toward her boyfriend. Finn sits up straighter and wears this self-satisfied smile that makes me suddenly and irrationally feel a flare of anger toward him, already considering revoking my thoughts on him being 'a decent guy.'

"But then I realized that there's someone here who needs a ballad more than Finn," Rachel continues. "And that someone is Quinn."

Finn's neck whips to his left, looking at me in such surprise as if seeing me for the first time, as if we hadn't just had a conversation confirming my existence two minutes ago.

A blush begins spreading along my face, the tips of my ears, to my toes; Rachel and Puck are both staring at me with these gentle smiles and intensely caring eyes; I feel so…exposed. But also very…warm and fuzzy inside.

"Yeah, 'cause you're a really awesome chick," Puck says matter-of-factly, sealing his words with a big nod. "And even though you have some shi – er, _stuff_" he shuffles his feet at his near cuss word slip in Mr. Schue's presence "going on, Rach and I want you to know that we'll always have your back."

"We want you to know that you're loved," Rachel says, "that you can always count on us."

The sweetness and affection coloring her words causes my top teeth to have to chew on my lower lip to cease its abrupt trembling.

"So," Rachel continues, "Noah and I chose the wonderful duet 'Count On Me,' from the fabulous Miss Whitney Houston – "

"Rest in peace," Kurt and Mercedes say together in reverential whispers.

" – and her friend, the great CeCe Winans," she finishes, looking up at Puck and giving him a nod.

Puck's fingers pick out the opening note, and then he and Rachel launch into the song, their clear voices harmonizing beautifully, tenderly. They start off low but powerful, like the hum of a bass vibrating through the air and tickling right under my skin in the best possible way. Then, slowly but surely, they build into a crescendo, Puck hitting all the notes like ringing bells, while Rachel showcases her Broadway-worthy pipes with loud, beautiful emotion.

The entire time, they look at me, they _sing_ to me, in a way that is both pleasing and unnerving as hell.

"_Count on me through thick and thin_

_A friendship that will never end_

_When you are weak, I will be strong_

_Helping you to carry on_

_Don't be afraid_

_Please believe me when I say_

_Count on…"_

Puck breaks off into a solo, his nimble fingers continuing to strum against his guitar, sending the poignant notes to dance through the air and straight into my pounding heart.

"_I can see it's hurting you_

_I can feel your pain_

_It's hard to see the sunshine through the rai-in, oh"_

Rachel picks up right after him, her pure, angelic, belting voice sending a cascade of chills to ripple goosebumps across my flesh. She stares into my eyes earnestly, almost pleadingly, as if her singing this song to me and conveying the exact right message is the most crucial thing she has ever done.

"_I know sometimes it seems as if it's never gonna end_

_But you'll get through it_

_Just don't give in"_

Puck joins back in for the chorus, their voices slipping into one another's, blending into a single, multi-layered melody reverberating with so many emotions.

"_Count on me through thick and thin_

_A friendship that will never end_

_When you are weak, I will be strong_

_Helping you to carry on_

_Call on me_

_I will be there_

_Don't be afraid"_

"_Please believe me when I say,_" Puck sings.

"_Please believe me when I say,_" Rachel echoes right after him.

"_Count on,_" sings Puck, holding out the quiet but powerful 'on' for as long as it takes Rachel to sing her accompanying line: "_You can count on me,_" she sings, eyes fluttering closed and words floating up throatily, as if from the very base of her being, "_ohhh yes you can, ahhh!"_

From my peripheral vision, I can tell that everyone on the risers is whispering confusedly and gossipingly amongst themselves, giving me weird looks, wondering what bad thing is going on in my life to warrant this uplifting, encouraging song on my behalf.

Finn sits stiffly beside me, his arms crossed over his chest, elbows tucked in, effectively sulking like a big baby because he was robbed of Rachel singing a special song to _him_.

I sit in shock and awe and so many overwhelming feelings, watching Puck and Rachel and wondering how on earth I lucked out to have them as my best friends. My heart feels like warm butter, melting right to the tips of my toes; I can't stop grinning like an idiot… And my eyes are beginning to flutter against a soft prickle of moisture.

Puck lets the guitar sing its own solo for a minute before Rachel belts out the next line, so vigorous and so potent that her eyes scrunch closed and her hands fly up, pushing into the air, as if there is just so much emotion inside of her fighting amongst itself to get out that she has to help some of it escape.

"_I know sometimes it seems as if we're_

_Staaaaanding all aloooone_

_But we'll get through it_

'_Cause love wouldn't let us faaa-AALLLLLL!"_

As Rachel finishes polishing off her larger-than-life high-note, Puck picks up with his verse, fingers making love to his guitar's strings, as if trying to make them develop their own vocal chords and sing along with him.

"_There's a place inside of us_

_Where our faith in love begins_

_You should reach to find the truth_

_The answers there within, ohhh!"_

Now, he and Rachel sing together, back to that same bass-like, dainty-thunder volume from the beginning, leaning into each other and gazing at me with so much love and surety that I have to look up at the ceiling, clap a hand over my mouth, and square my shoulders to keep from bursting into tears.

"_I know that life can make you feel_

_It's much harder than it really is_

_But we'll get through it_

_Just don't give in"_

Puck's guitar takes another brief solo. I finally muster the strength to look at them again, and am surprised enough to give a little jump in my seat when I see that Rachel is now standing toe-to-toe in front of me, a smile pulled straight up to the corners of her eyes, which glow like small amber suns.

Her hands slide over mine, strong and smooth; her fingers nudge between my own, and effectively nudge around my heartstrings, as well.

She tugs me out of my seat – a strange sound that is half-unsure-protest and half-delighted-giggle leaves my throat of its own accord – and pulls me after her, stopping before the piano. She releases my hands to slip a steadying, tight arm around my waist, cradling me between her and Puck.

Up-close, I can the tenderness shining in Puck's eyes, and the tears that are forming in Rachel's, about to slip down her reddened face.

That does it – seeing them so emotional makes _me_ even more emotional, and I start crying right here, in front of everybody, my hands flying up to cover my face as my shoulders shake to suppress any noise from the tears gushing down my heated cheeks.

They finish their song, both pressing their sides against mine, singing softer now, more like a lullaby, letting the words and the tune and the _everything_ wash over me.

"_Count on me through thick and thin_

_A friendship that will never end_

_When you are weak, I will be strong_

_Helping you to carry on_

_Don't be afraid_

_Please believe me when I say_

_Count on_

_Ooh_

_Count on…_

_Me._"

Two sets of arms envelope me, and I clumsily reach out to wrap my own arms around their limbs and torsos, while Puck's guitar clunks against us, as if it wants a hug, too.

"Wow!" Mr. Schue enthuses, clapping. "Great job!"

Everybody claps politely and enthusiastically enough, but I can tell their main concern is their own piqued curiosity, wondering why this song was sung to me, and wondering why it elicited this reaction from the ever-composed Quinn Fabray.

"Thank you," I whisper to Puck and Rachel, looking up at their gentle expressions – the private, loving smile Puck gives both Rachel and me; Rachel's tear-streaked face – out of my teary, burning eyes.

Amidst our labyrinth of overlapping arms, Puck squeezes Rachel's shoulder and the two exchange a caring look rife with friendship and sibling-esque affection before turning back to me and shuffling closer, tightening our group hug.

"You're welcome," they whisper back.

My eyes flutter shut as Puck's mouth pecks my forehead, and as Rachel's intoxicating lavender-vanilla fills my nostrils, consuming my senses, until the world is blurred at the edges with a bright, sunny glare.

* * *

><p>After a few more seconds, Rachel, Puck, and I extract ourselves from our bear hug; Puck realigns his guitar strap while Rachel and I swipe at our faces, giggling at our now surely-unladylike appearances.<p>

Mr. Schue starts talking about the conclusion of this week's assignment, reflecting on what the performances have taught us individually and as a group.

Rachel sits down where I had been beside Finn, but surprisingly they don't acknowledge each other in the slightest; rather, Finn is still sulking, and Rachel is angling her body toward where I'm seated on the chair to her other side. Puck plops down to my left, setting his guitar on the ground with an amount of care toward it that is usually reserved for handling newborn kittens.

When Glee Club is dismissed thirty minutes later, there's – like always – a mad rush to leave. Everyone sneaks intrigued but guarded eyes toward me as they file out of the room. Even Sam looks at me, the slightest but most telling of concern cracking into his stone façade.

Puck says his goodbyes to me and Rachel before leaving, clapping Finn on the back as he passes by. Finn gives a grunt of recognition and continues to hover awkwardly beside Rachel as she waits for me to finish gathering my things.

"When did you and Puck work on the duet?" Finn asks Rachel, his tone _too_ casual.

I stand up from my spot kneeling on the floor, slipping my arms through my backpack straps as I do so. My eyes travel seamlessly from Rachel and Finn as their conversation unfolds.

"Yesterday after school," Rachel says, flipping some of her glossy hair over her shoulder. "Why?"

"It's just…" Finn looks down at his big foot, dragging the tip of his shoe left-to-right, then right-to-left, over the tile floor. "I don't like the idea of you spending all that alone time with him." He looks up, meeting Rachel's eyes, his expression turning defiant and petulant.

Shit, Finn… Good luck prying your foot out of your mouth on that one: Rachel's mouth hardens and her eyes flash dangerously.

"Excuse me, Finn, but Noah is one of my closest friends," Rachel says, sticking her hands on her hips. "And the last time I checked, he was one of yours, as well. The notion that you do not 'approve' of us spending time together is frankly insulting."

I scratch at the back of my neck for lack of anything better to do, unsure how to approach this awkward situation. I think the best course of action is to stay out of it, but there's a dominant part of me that wants to tell Finn to beat it so I can thank Rachel again for her ballad, which seems _so_ much more important than Finn's petty worries.

"Yeah, Rachel, but you never think about my feelings," Finn whines.

His glance shifts to me for the briefest of seconds, and it's in this moment that I realize he's not just upset with her about Puck – his pride is wounded, his big hairy ego popped, jealous that I got way more attention from his girlfriend today than he did. But he can't very well say _that,_ because then he would look like a huge jerk, to be angry at Rachel for serenading me rather than him.

"Ever since you cheated on me with Puck last year, I don't trust him with you," he finishes, widening his eyes at Rachel as if begging her to see reason.

"Or, you mean you don't trust _me,_" Rachel huffs. "I don't believe this! Come on, Quinn; let's get out of here." She grabs my hand and marches forward, yanking me past Finn with barely enough time for me to send him a half-heartedly sympathetic shrug.

But Rachel and I don't get three feet before Santana and Brittany materialize from the shadows, stepping into our path and halting our movement.

Finn storms past us, out the door and out of sight, practically leaving behind a trail of smoke in his wake.

"Hey, Q," Santana says, arms folded and head tilted to the side, her trademark confrontational stance. "We need to talk."

"Awesome job, Rachel," Brittany says with a wide smile. "Your singing voice made my ears cry tears of joy, like a baby angel weeping pearls and diamonds. I think I may hire you to perform for Lord Tubbington at his birthday party. He would love it if you sang the soundtrack to _Cats_."

Rachel positively beams and says, "Aw, thank you; I would definitely love to be hired for a birthday party, whether human or animal!" Meanwhile, Santana shoots Brittany a reprimanding stare for speaking to Rachel, especially so kindly, before swinging a glare back to me.

"What is it, San?" I ask, lifting my eyebrows impatiently. "Rach and I were just leaving, so could you hurry up and spit it out." I'm not in the mood for her argumentative attitude right now; I want to cling to the feel-good warmth and sentimentality of Puck and Rachel's duet for as long as possible.

"Here's the thing," she says, "Britt and I aren't stupid. And I _thought_ that _we're_ supposed to be your best friends. So how come there's obviously this big secret going on in your life right now, and you're keeping us in the dark? How come Berry and Puck are singing you cheer-up tunes and Britts and I are none the wiser as to why you even need a fucking cheer-up ditty in the first place? _Hmmm?_" She juts her neck out and squints her eyes suspiciously. Anger sizzles from her bronze skin like oil popping in a pan.

"What Santana is trying to say," Brittany pipes up, setting a calm hand on her girlfriend's shoulder and staring at me with ample amounts of concern, "is that we're worried about you. You're keeping something from us, and we just wish you were as close with as we thought you were, 'cause you won't even tell us what's going on."

The palm of Rachel's hand rests against the middle of my back, sending a flow of warmth to spread all along my body. Her supportive touch combined with the worry peeling into view in Santana's eyes and the rare frown tugging Brittany's lips into a pronounced pout give me the boost of esteem I need.

I realize that now is the time to tell Britt and San my secret.

It's time to share with them who I really am.

Either that, or push them away and drive an impenetrable wedge into our invaluable friendship.

So I find myself saying, tone louder and more confident than I'd expected, "All right. Follow us over to Rachel's house, and I'll explain everything."


	25. Chapter 25

Thanks a million to those who reviewed! You guys help keep me going with this. :D To those who I message with and haven't replied to yet, I apologize, but I've been busy, especially with writing this story - I hope you understand. And I hope everyone enjoys this chapter and finds it as enjoyable as it is long, lol.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE<strong>

"You ready?"

I set my car to 'Park' in Rachel's driveway and cut the engine. "Yeah," I say, staring forward and taking a deep breath. "Quinn Fabray Comes out of the Closet: Take Four." I imagine a director's clapboard slapping out the start of a new scene, the camera zooming in and the boom mics rising out of sight.

Rachel reaches over to pat the back of my hand. She hops out of the passenger side door, her skirt flashing up for the briefest of seconds, exposing a long strip of smooth thigh; I yank my eyes away, blushing, and exit my car.

Over by the curb, Santana and Brittany are climbing out of their own cars; they come together, pinkies locking, and meet me and Rachel at her front door.

"Damn." Santana lets loose a long whistle. "Are your parents hitmen, Berry? This is one _sch_-_waaaanky_ crib."

"San," Brittany giggles, rolling her eyes, "this is a _house_. Cribs are much smaller and generally would not be able to fit more than one normal-sized person." She giggles again and shakes her head at me and Rachel, like 'can you believe my girlfriend sometimes?'

Santana just smirks and rolls her eyes back at Brittany in retaliation. "You know what I meant," she huffs.

"I would just like to take this moment to address the earth-shattering fact that Santana just called me 'Berry,'" says Rachel, a proud smile inching up her face. "Not 'Dwarf.' Not 'Hobbit.' Not 'Toucan Sam.' But 'Berry,' my actual surname."

Santana glares so hard, I'm surprised her face doesn't collapse in on itself. "Yeah, well, don't get too used to it, _Berry,_" she lets her tone do all the insulting for her. "I may have to play nice 'cause I'm about to enter your domain, but once we get back on McKinley turf, I can go back to calling you whatever the hell I wa – "

"Santana!" I snap, stomping my foot. "Please! Just get over it already! Britt and I have both moved on from tormenting Rachel for no good reason. So can you please just _grow up_ already and give the girl a freaking break?" I gape at my fuming friend with an exasperated plea all over my face.

"Yeah, I'd like to give her a break, all right," Santana grumbles, so low that I'm only able to catch it after years of being around her and hearing her constant asides.

Then, louder, she hisses a sigh through clenched teeth before saying, "Fine. No more nicknames. Can we go inside already? And, now that I think about it, why the hell are we here anyway? What, is your house being fumigated or something, Quinn?"

Uh-oh. 'Quinn,' not 'Q.' That shows more than anything that Santana's really irked with me.

"My parents kicked me out," I say as Rachel finally succeeds in unlocking the door, the key jiggling between desperate fingers. "So, I'm living with Rachel now and for however long I need."

Santana's glare melts off her face faster than ice thrown into a raging fire; her now sheepish gaze lands on her feet as a blush appears on her cheeks. Sightings of San blushing are rarer than the Yeti.

Brittany stares at me, eyes doubled in size, as if she's just seen a ghost. Her face is certainly as pale as one. "Ohmygosh, Quinn!" she squeaks. "For how long?"

Rachel walks into her house and we all follow after her like a line of clumsy ducklings, our feet shuffling and our postures hunched.

"Um, two nights ago," I say.

The most uncomfortable silence ever presses down around us, a physical entity, fists and stones and lead blankets.

No one makes eye-contact with anyone. The enormity of the situation looms tall and intimidating, a cursed statue that will turn you into dust if you even graze so much as a fingertip upon it.

Finally, Santana says, with a light tremble in her voice and ample amounts of forced casualness, "Seriously, Berry, what do your parents do for a living?"

Rachel leads us up the massive staircase, onto the landing, past the grand piano. "They're interior decorators," she says.

It's a testament to the awkwardness that Rachel doesn't launch into her Tour Guide From Hell spiel and show them around her house. I'm grateful; the sooner my secret is unaired, the sooner we can deal with it and move on.

"Would you like to convene in my room or in Quinn's?" Rachel asks, pausing in the hallway between the two bedroom's doors.

Something sparks through me at that: 'Quinn's bedroom.' It really enforces the idea of me staying here, and this makes me feel a disconcerting blend of sadness at leaving my own home and happiness at so easily falling into Rachel's.

"Your room is bigger," I point out. "But I don't want to impose on your space."

Santana turns to the side and starts slapping at her face as if battling with rabid mosquitoes. "It's nothing," she says, even though nobody asked. Her bottom lip gives a quick, violent quiver. "My eyes are just having an allergic reaction to all the dust in here. Like, you should really clean more." She swipes some more at her eyes, sniffles a sound as piercing as a gunshot, and straightens up into a prime posture as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

Rachel gives Santana the gentlest of smiles. "I'll keep that in mind." Yeah, as if Rachel's house needs to be any cleaner; there's not a single speck of grime or dust to be found. It's inhuman, really.

"You know what?" Rachel's softened eyes travel over me, Santana, and Britt, tracing a slow semi-circle. "How about you take my room? I think the bright, pink-based color scheme in there will have a subconsciously uplifting factor to what is sure to be quite a heavy conversation. I'll be down the hall watching TV in my dads' room if you need me."

She turns to go, stepping forward; my fingers jump without asking, latching onto her elbow and tugging her back. "No," I blurt, dropping my voice into the lowest of whispers. "Rach, I _need_ you."

Rachel fixes me with an expression rife with meaning. "Quinn," she whispers, peeling my hand away from her and squeezing my fingers before letting go. "These are your friends; they love you. I promise. This is something you need to discuss with them, privately, okay?"

She shoots a final nod toward Britt and San, graces me with an encouraging smile, and walks off down the hall, disappearing into her parents' bedroom. When she peers through the doorway and sees us still standing like a bunch of paralyzed zombies, she makes a 'go on already!' motion with her hand, raises her eyebrows sternly, and closes the door, sealing herself away, leaving me standing here with two nervous-looking friends who keep sneaking anxious glances between each other, and a heart that won't stop flip-flopping in my chest.

"So…" I open Rachel's bedroom door and let them in first before following. "This is Rachel's room."

"It's like walking into a Barbie Dream House," says Brittany, grinning in childlike awe. "It makes me want to eat really sugary candy, like, right now."

Santana says nothing, merely looks around the room with an indecipherable expression on her face, one that I have never seen before in all my years of knowing her. She doesn't even roll her eyes at the cheesy heart-framed photo of Rachel and Finn on the white desk, the one disapproving thing I wouldn't even scold her for doing.

I plop down on one of the large petals of the dark-pink-and-orange, flower-shaped rug in the middle of the room. Brittany and Santana sit across from me. We tuck our legs beneath us, Indian-style, and suddenly I'm flashing back to Kindergarten; it's story time, and we're on the Rainbow Reading Rug, and my name is Lucy, not Quinn, and my first crush is over there with the bright red ribbons in her pigtails.

"So," Brittany says, pulling off the hair elastic from her ponytail and shaking her straight blonde hair out to fall around her shoulders. "What's going on with you, Quinn? Why didn't you tell us that your parents kicked you out? And, like, why did you go to Rachel's when you could've roomed with me or San?" Her tone is quiet, concerned, but veers into wounded toward the end. She blinks at me out of ocean-blue, injured-puppy eyes, her hands folded in her lap and elbows extended like an angel.

Santana runs her fingers over her forehead, toward her ear, brushing away invisible hairs; she swallows so hard that I can see her throat working. Her gaze flicks to the ceiling before meeting mine; I see the vulnerability surfacing raw and pure in her deep brown eyes.

"I just don't get it," she says in a small voice, all her self-proclaimed 'HBIC' layers stripped away, unveiling that warm, gooey center. "I thought we were best friends for life, Q: you, me, and Britts – the Unholy Trinity. We've been close ever since the summer before freshman year when we bonded at cheer camp. I just don't…" A spasm zips across her face, leaving behind muscles contorted in sadness, twisting her lower lip to pout and her eyes to somehow both squint and widen at the same time.

Santana's voice comes out croaky, her words unpolished and rough around the edges. "I just don't get what we did wrong. What _I_ did wrong, to…to push you away…." She covers her face, arms shaking; when she pulls her hands away, a few tears are rolling down her cheeks, smudging her mascara. She swipes them away as if they're ants on a picnic table, frustration flitting over her features at showing what she perceives as weakness.

Brittany scoots over and slides an arm around San's waist, rests her head on the brunette's shoulder and stares at the ground, her blue eyes gleaming with unshed tears.

My heart rips right down the middle; I hate seeing them like this – they're like my sisters, seriously, my crazy-Latina and goofy-blonde sisters. The worst part is, I know I did this to them; _I'm_ the one who did the pushing away, despite the fact that they almost always tell me their secrets, that they usually reach out to me. And how do I repay them? By batting away their hands and keeping them in the dark.

Guilt tears apart my insides, like a mountain lion's wild claws. "You guys," I squeak, my voice feeble against a sandpaper throat. "Please don't cry; you're going to make me cry, too, and I…I'm so sick of crying."

"Please," Brittany whispers, setting a hand on my knee and locking her gaze into mine. "Tell us what's going on. We're here for you. _Please._"

"The reason I didn't want to tell you guys," I say, eyes going back and forth between theirs, my stomach roiling, "is because I'm so ashamed. Not of the secret itself, but because I couldn't bring myself to trust you to be there for me." My stare falls to the dark-pink and orange of the rug, the moisture in my eyes swirling the two colors into a multitude of shades and tints.

"Because even though you two are probably the best people I could choose to relate to what I'm going through… I just… You guys have been able to accept it for a whole year, and it seems so easy for you, and I'm so ashamed that I'm not as brave or strong as you guys, and…and…." I pause to gulp in some air, my heart racing. "I thought you guys would be mad at me because you told me and I never told you, and…." I blink hard and the colors splash from my eyes, orange and pink bleeding away, leaving me to peel my eyes back open amidst a world of blurry edges with a too-sharp center.

I use the soft sleeve of my sunny yellow cardigan to dry my face.

Santana plants her hand on my other knee, ducking her head under my lowered vision and catching my eyes. "Hey, look at me," she says in her gentle, sweet-as-honey voice that is rarely used on anyone but Brittany. "Deep breath, let it out slowly, and then just blurt your secret out. Like a Band-Aid, rip the motherfucker off and let us know how we can help." Well, at least the 'motherfucker' part is more typical Santana.

She pulls her face away from mine to give me space, but like Britt, her hand remains on my knee. Their palms are like mine, a little too-warm and just the slightest bit sweaty. Somehow, this is better than if their hands were perfectly dry and perfectly sure – I don't feel so alone in my feelings, in my insecurities.

I place my hands atop Britt's and Santana's spot on my knees, hoping they don't mind how my palms are growing clammier by the second.

"I'm…" _Come on, you can say it. You know they aren't going to leave you. You know they'll understand. They love you. Just say it!_

They blink expectantly but don't pressure me. I consider what San said; I draw in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then, without letting myself _think _about it for even a nanosecond longer, I find my lips moving and my throat hoisting up the two words by their feet, launching them straight from my mouth like a cheerleader tossed onto a pyramid.

"I'm gay."

The words make a clear arc through the air, landing with an almost audible _splat_ onto Britt and San's expressions; their reactions are immediate, so quick that I have to consciously stop myself from jerking backward.

Santana's eyes pop so wide, I can see the whites all around; her head tilts back; her jaw drops; she gasps with the sort of melodrama usually seen only in cheesy soap operas. "_Whaaaaaattttt?_"

Brittany's eyes widen, too, but rather than scream with shock, hers fill with joy. Her entire _being_ lights up like a freaking Christmas tree; her posture bounces with excitement, her grin shows practically every one of her teeth, pulling all the way up to her ears; and her cheeks flush with a delighted pink.

"Really?" she squeals, as if I've just told her that I'm actually a Fairy Princess in disguise and need her help in finding my golden magical dust, rather than the fact that I, you know, just admitted that I have been living a lie this entire time.

"That can't be true!" Santana insists, shaking her head back and forth so fast and hard that her ponytail whips behind her in a tornado of silky black. "I pride myself on having _awesome_ Gaydar, and you never blipped on it, not once! Not even a tiny little beep."

"Sorry to disappoint, but I'm definitely gay," I say, unable to stop myself from rolling my eyes (which feels weird with the leftover tears swimming in them).

"Oh!" Santana abruptly stops shaking her head and stares right into my eyes, expression now one of complete sympathy and a twinge of embarrassment. "No, I'm sorry. Of course you are, that's not what I meant; I just mean, you hide it really well. But that's not the point. _Ugh,_ I'm getting all stutter-y and stupid on you, and I'm sorry, but I'm just…"

She turns her hand over under mine, so now the back of it is on my knee and our palms are connected; her fingers slip through the gaps between mine, curling around the top of my hand and locking into place. "I'm shocked, okay? To be honest, I thought you were going to say you're pregnant, so I'm also pretty damn relieved. I don't think I'm ready to be Auntie 'Tana just yet. But still, I'm…I'm shocked."

I follow her lead and lay my fingers atop her hand, successfully interlocking us, and flash a bashful but grateful smile. "It's okay, San; I get it. And I think Britt gets it, too." I have to chuckle at how overjoyed my fellow blonde-haired girl is, practically bursting right out of her skin.

"Are you kidding?" Brittany exclaims, turning her beam to Santana (which coaxes a giggle from her) before swiveling her crazy-exuberant stare back to me. "This is great! Like, super-duper-awesome-_fantastic_ great! Now you're a fellow Rainbow Sparkle Unicorn with us. Like, all cool and unique people are Unicorns, but it takes an extra-special person to be a Rainbow Sparkle one."

"So, basically like a VIP group of lesbian Unicorns?" I clarify, smirking in amusement.

"Exactly!" Brittany exclaims, nodding so excitedly that I fear her head will go shooting off her neck and ricocheting across the room, crashing Rachel's lamp to pieces. "Just, you know, don't try to take Santana away from me, or I'll have to maul you with my Chief Unicorn Horn, which is tipped with sparkly gold poison," she adds, wagging a mock-stern finger at me.

"Trust me," I say, making a face. "You can have her."

"Hey!" Santana cries, laughing as she yanks her hand out of mine and then shoves against my shoulder. "Watch your mouth, Fabray."

I hold both of my hands up in surrender, accidentally bringing Brittany's with me, since our fingers are still intertwined; she leans forward with the momentum, toppling out of Santana's lap and sprawling across the round yellow center of the flower-shaped rug.

"Looks like Britt's the one you have to worry about," I say, releasing the girl in question's hand. "So shamelessly throwing herself at me; not that I can blame her, of course. I tend to have that effect on people."

"What effect?" Santana asks, helping Brittany back into a much more dignified sitting position. "Nausea?"

"Ha. Ha. Ha," I say, tone and face in full monotone.

"Enough with the jokes," Santana says meaningfully, expression transitioning easily from smile to serious. "All right, so what you told us sounds _huge_, Q. _Huge_. Obviously Britt and I know that from personal experience. But the truth is, your problems are only as big as you let them be."

I look down at my hands, cupped within my lap. "That's good advice."

"Of course it is," Santana says. "It's _great_ advice. But unfortunately, it's way easier said than done. Again, personal experience." I hear her sharp intake of breath; my fingers twitch, as if wanting to reach out and comfort her of their own accord.

"I just...it's like… Look, I know this is really stupid to admit, okay? And I'm not trying to be all selfish and make your big coming out moment all about me, but… I'm hurt that you didn't think Britt and I would be here for you. And it really sucks, because I feel like we've been drifting apart lately, and you've been spending all your free time with Puck and Berry.

"I can't help but wonder if you're avoiding me, and it's like you think I'm a nuisance or something and… God, I'm like a fucking twelve-year-old." She utters a mirthless, self-deprecating laugh. "Just ignore me, I'm sorry. Let's get back to you."

I pull my gaze up from my lap and look at Santana, really _look_ at her.

My heart rips apart all over again: her eyes are openly wounded, tinged with shame and self-loathing; her mouth is set in a deep, upside-down crescent.

My eyes swing to Brittany, and it's obvious that she's not in much better shape; the same crestfallen face, her fingernails digging into her cuticles.

"We love you, Quinn," Brittany says in a voice genuine and sweet enough to make even a grown man break into tears. She's like fluffy puppies and tiny kittens and everything pure in the world in this instant, with her blue eyes earnest and wide. "You're like our sister; seriously, San and I once got into a little argument over who would get to have you as our Maid of Honor at our wedding. How could you ever think we wouldn't be here for you?"

"It's my fault," Santana says, matter-of-fact and that familiar know-it-all tone. But this time it doesn't make me temporarily hate her; this time, it makes me hate myself. "I'm a bitch." She nods and shrugs, this awkward movement of bobbing head and bobbing shoulders, like one of those desk dolls with the giant heads and little springs for necks.

"No," I say, firmer than I've ever been. "It's neither of your fault; it's all mine, okay? San, yes, you can be a bitch to those who don't know you very well, but you've never been seriously mean to me. So, don't you dare blame yourself. And Britt, don't try to blame yourself either."

I run my fingers through my hair, sighing deeply. "I didn't tell either of you about my secret – about who I am – sooner, because, like I said, I was ashamed. I still am kind of ashamed, because the fact is, I'm weak. You are both so strong and so sure and so…so _untouchable_, and I'm just not like that. I'm this scared little girl on the inside, no matter how tough I act."

I hold up a hand when Brittany tries to speak, needing to get this all out before I forget something or wimp out again. If they want to be there for me, they can start by being all ears, by letting me vent.

"Do you know how my parents found out that I'm gay?" I ask, raising my eyebrows. Obviously they don't, so I go ahead and answer my own question. "They read my diary. _All_ of my recent diaries, actually." Britt and San visibly cringe at this. "I didn't get to sit them down and share my side of the story. I barely got to defend myself at all. I couldn't explain that this isn't a choice, that picking who you love is about as much of an option as picking your natural eye color.

"But the thing is, I don't think I ever would have been ready to come out to them. Because the truth is, I'm a coward. I'm terrified of the future; I have no clue what I want to do with my life, and then you add my sexuality on top of that? I should be dealing with acne at this age, not with a crisis of religion and losing my family!

"I see how it is for you two; you guys don't care what people think when you walk down the hallways holding hands. You don't mind the occasional whispering or the stares. And you have parents who love and accept you no matter what. And maybe I sort of resented you both for that," I say, scratching the tip of my nose and forcing myself to keep looking at them and not to stare over their shoulders.

"Maybe that's what pushed me away. Maybe I hated how you guys always drop me off early after we hang out so you can spend private time together. Like you're each other's Number One, and I'm just the back-up best friend for you to turn to when you're bored." My voice gives a crack that is both quiet and incredibly loud all at once.

"Maybe I'm jealous how people are too afraid to mess with you, Santana, or how people are too indifferent toward you, Britt, to tease you. Maybe I'm just…" _Ugh_; my voice is thinning, my tone wavering from indignant to something shriveled and weak. "I'm just… I'm so _afraid!_" I wail the last word, flinging my hands to cover my face and blushing through every pore of my body.

_Damn it! Pull yourself together!_

Two pairs of arms are thrown around me like blankets; bodies nuzzle into either of my sides, with hands all over –fingers smoothing back my hair, tucking stray locks behind my ears, sweeping stubborn wisps off my forehead; even more fingers are running up and down the length of my arm, tracing along the most soothing of lines.

Sniffling sounds fill the air, and I'm surprised that no tears have fallen from my eyes, that the face hidden behind my sweaty palms is still relatively dry.

And I'm even more surprised when I feel little splats of moisture dripping onto my shoulders, down my neck, and I realize that the sniffling I heard wasn't coming from me after all, but from them.

Of course, like a freaking chain reaction of hormones, this discovery makes my ever-present tears show up for duty and start leaking down my face.

I figure if all of us are going to be a hot mess, we might as well be a hot mess together.

* * *

><p>Several minutes later, once we've composed ourselves and blown our noses in Rachel's bubblegum-pink-colored Kleenexes ("I feel like I'm wiping my snot on a fucking Barbie dress," Santana commented, but with humor rather than scorn), we lay sprawled on our stomachs across the floor, heads facing each other in a misshapen sort of triangle.<p>

"You know, Q, you say that Britt and I have it so easy, but I think you're forgetting something," Santana says. Her chin rests on the back of her forearms, which are crossed on the ground, each hand pointing toward me or Brittany like a human compass. "Something huge."

"What's that?"

"_Mi_ _abuela_ abandoned me when I told her about Brittany, remember? I was closer to her than any of my other family members combined, and she turned out to be the only person who shoved me out of her life when she found out." Santana's tone is carefully controlled, devoid of any inflections that could lead to larger scale emotions like yelling or crying. She stares at the back of her hands, eyes narrowed, those thick lashes of hers curling up to put all of her exotic beauty on display.

"I know," I say. "I'm sorry that happened to you, really."

I wasn't ever able to actually comfort Santana on the issue when it happened, since she told me about it off-handedly one day after Glee Club, like: '_Ugh_, can you believe all the homework we have today? I don't see how I can finish it by tomorrow. Oh, by the way, my grandma disowned me when I told her I like girls. Gotta go; I'll see you later; bye!'

Something like that, maybe not verbatim. Then, she had stridden off down the hall with Brittany, evading my concerned, probing questions. Anytime I tried to bring it up after that, she would swiftly change the subject.

Maybe that's another reason I kept my own secret from them for so long; I felt bitter toward Santana for always keeping me in the dark or at least in the shadows with the major aspects of her life, so I wanted to punish her by not letting her in on my own worries and troubles.

"I know you are," she says, gaze stretching upward, latching onto mine. "And _I'm_ sorry for not letting you in more. You know I don't like to talk about myself, unless it's bragging or some other shit like that. I hate speaking about bad things, because it makes it feel more real, you know?"

"Yes," I say with a small smile, knowing exactly what she means. "I do."

"My parents are okay with me being bisexual," Brittany says, "but they're not totally thrilled about it. Like, my dad said, 'if you like both boys and girls, then why not just go with boys?' As if I could just turn off or ignore the part of my brain that is attracted to girls and only make myself fall for guys." She holds her hair out in front of her and fiddles with the ends, as if it's the most fascinating thing she has ever seen. Somehow I doubt that's the reason for the intensity her eyes have taken.

"And my mom didn't believe me at first," she continues, tone as detached as someone reciting a boring speech they've had to memorize and give dozens of times before to disinterested crowds. Seeing as how Brittany is usually the epitome of expressive and excitable, I can tell how much this part of her past bothers her. It makes me think that maybe everyone has their own demons to battle.

"She said that bisexuality doesn't exist, that I was just _confused_." Here, her tone veers right into Pissed Off territory, all hard syllables and a bitter bite to the word.

"What changed their minds?" I ask. "What made them believe you?"

"Santana," she says simply, looking up and exchanging a serious, loving look with her girlfriend. For once, it makes me smile rather than roll my eyes at the mushy-gushiness.

Britt's gaze swivels to mine, much more open, though still a bit tentative. "The first night she stayed for dinner as my girlfriend instead of as just my friend, my parents sat me down afterward and told me that they had never seen me smile so much or act so happy. They said they knew I really did care about her in a 'more than friends' way, and they said that even though they thought it was weird, they were glad I had found a great person and they weren't going to stand in my way."

"That's awesome," I say, my heart warming for her, even if it also splinters the slightest bit in envy. "I'm glad your parents opened up their minds for you."

"Thanks." Her smile is the shyest and sweetest I've ever seen it. "I'm sorry I never really talked about it before. It kind of embarrassed me at first, to have my parents thinking I was abnormal or just confused. It made me feel kind of stupid, even though I know I'm not."

"No," Santana says, earnestness rolling off her in waves, "you're not stupid."

"Definitely not," I agree with an emphatic nod.

Brittany's smile widens and the faintest of pinks surfaces atop her cheekbones.

After a few seconds of comfortable silence, Santana speaks again, her tone now thoughtful, expression pensive.

"You know, I'm thinking back to what you said earlier," she says. "About how you're scared of the future."

"And?" I ask, curious.

"And, I think it's okay to be afraid," Santana says. "Everyone's afraid of something, especially the big things. Those who say otherwise are delusional or liars. Or both."

"I'm afraid of the dark," Brittany says. "Bad stuff only happens in the dark."

"That's why God invented flashlights," Santana says, "and oversized chubby tabby cats that sit at their owner's feet and guard her during the night like a furry ninja."

"Lord Tubbington isn't chubby," Brittany says defensively, which is kind of hilarious in its own right, considering she _did_ name the poor cat 'Lord _Tubb_ington,' after all. "He's just…round and full, like an apple. Please don't ever mention his weight in front of him, okay? It's something he's really insecure about."

I think of Buttercup and a cold sickness churns in my stomach; I miss her so much.

"It's probably all that cheese he eats," I tell Brittany, rolling over onto my back and staring up at the ceiling. "Maybe you shouldn't let him have all that fondue when you do your internet talk show. Change the name to _Vegetables and Fruits for Two_ instead." I'm only half-serious, only half-present. My mind is back at home, in my own bed, with my doggie by my side, her tail wagging against my leg.

"Quinn, don't be ridiculous," says Brittany. "I can't change the name this late in the game; think of all the money on branding that will have gone to waste. Besides, _Fondue for Two_ has a nice, memorable ring to it because it rhymes. Everyone loves a good, catchy rhyme."

"True," Santana says, and I can just see her lifting an agreeing finger into the air.

"So, are you going to stay with Berry, or are you going to go back home and make your parents let you live there?" Santana asks me. "Honestly, I say, fuck 'em. If they're gonna be like that, then they aren't worth your time or your energy, you know? That's what I finally decided about _mi abuela_ – she's the one missing out, not me."

"Rachel and her dads are amazing," I say, warm affection flowing through me at the thought of the Berries. "They're letting me stay here for as long as I need, free of charge. I don't see myself going back to my old house and trying to talk it over with my parents, because I'm both too prideful and too embarrassed to do that."

I nibble upon my lower lip, twisting it around at odd angles. "A part of me is _furious _with them for abandoning me, for being so quick to throw me from my own house. But there's another part of me that misses them, that wishes this had never happened. I mean, I'm glad it happened– if 'glad' is the right word – since I don't have to live this big lie around them anymore; in that way, things are easier. Still, it was nice to think I had parents who loved me for me, even if it all turned out to be a ruse."

"Really," I say, on a ranting roll now, "I miss Buttercup the most of all. She's my best friend, the only one who never judges me, _ever_. I'm sure you can relate, Britt, with Lord Tubbsy."

"Wait!" Santana says, and something in her tone makes me roll back over onto my stomach so I can look at her.

"Yeah?"

"Oh my God, I didn't even think about that! You mean they took your own dog away from you?" she asks, eyebrows flying upward.

I nod, my throat feeling too tight to squeeze out any words.

"That is complete and total bullshit!" she seethes, lifting up a hand just to slam it back down onto the carpet. "Buttercup is _your_ dog; she obviously loves you the most, and you're the one who always feeds her and takes her on walks. I mean, seriously, what the fucking hell?"

The wariest of smiles pulls at my lips. "My thoughts exactly."

"That is so not fair," Brittany says, frowning deeply. "Your parents are _sooo_ mean, Quinn. I can't imagine if my mom and dad took Lord Tubbington away from me. He's, like, my best friend, my sunshine on a cloudy day – the cat version of you and Santana."

"Yeah, I wish I could get Buttercup back," I say. "My house is one thing, but my dog is another. I wish I could just sneak into my house and take her away with me."

Santana shoots right off her stomach, sitting up on her legs and straightening her posture like a ramrod. She gets that look of hers – that mischievous 'I Am Currently Scheming, Do Not Interrupt' look I have come to know like the back of my own hand: puckered brow, pursed lips, dark brown eyes glowing as her emotions stew within, cooking to a boiling point.

"What if you do?" she says after a moment, a delicious smirk stealing up her mouth. She cocks one eyebrow at me and tilts her head.

"What if I do 'what'?" I ask, lifting up on my elbows. My heart begins to pick up speed; my stomach simmers with either excitement or nerves, but for the life of me, I can't tell the difference.

"What if you broke into your own house and got to take your dog back and stick it to your parents all at once?" she says slowly, not as if I'm stupid but as if the words are tasty enough to savor.

Brittany perks up at this, face brightening with an understanding grin and eyes widening to twice their normal size. "Oh my God! San, you're a genius!"

"I know," Santana says with a scarily determined grin. "Quinn Fabray, we are getting your dog back."

"Epic Mission Reunite Buttercup with Quinn while also Sticking it to Quinn's Parents, begin!" Brittany cheers.

"The length of the codename could use some work," I say, unable to stop myself from beaming right back at them. "But other than that, I think that sounds like the best plan I've ever heard."

To seal the deal, we stack all our hands – San's, mine, Britt's, San's again, mine again, and Britt's again – one on top another; say "the Unholy Trinity!" in unison, our breath stolen away by jubilant giggles; and with that, we break on it.


	26. Chapter 26

A great big "thank you!" to everyone for the fabulous feedback. :D

This next chapter is a lot longer than my other ones; I debated with splitting it into two, but I thought it flowed better this way. You can give me your opinion if you prefer longer updates like this; it's something I can take into consideration if enough people feel a certain way. :) As always, I hope you enjoy, thanks for reading, and don't forget to leave a review. *Mwuah!* ;)

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX<strong>

Santana stands up on her white sneakered feet, her slender fingers brushing off the back of her pleated red Cheerios skirt.

Brittany and I follow suit, pulling ourselves off Rachel's rug and into standing positions. Britt puts her hair back up into a ponytail, the black elastic emitting a _snap_ as she tugs it into place.

"Soooooo…" Santana puffs the word from puckered lips, absentmindedly adjusting her own up-do, a bouncy black ponytail with a pretty curl at the end. "What now?"

"We tell Rachel that we're done talking in private," I say, walking toward the still-open doorway, "and that she can join us."

Santana heaves a loud sigh. "Look, I get that you and Berry have somehow merged this all-powerful friendship or whatever, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. She still annoys me to no end, and I still think you two together is weird as fuck."

I turn in the doorway to shoot her an irritated expression, my mouth falling open to ask her to please cut it out already, for Pete's freaking sake.

But San lifts a halting hand and continues without letting me speak. "However," she says, the word weighted in meaning, "that being said, I'll stop teasing her and insulting her and being all bitchy around her. It doesn't mean I _want _to, but I'm willing to take one for the team. But when she's out of earshot all bets are off in this whole 'playing nice' thing, got it, Q?"

I can't help but smile and roll my eyes at the same time, as per usual caught between understanding and annoyance with where San is coming from; she can't help being more guarded than a prison anymore than I can help my natural tendency to avoid major conflict – I have to either take it or leave it with her, and considering I love her like a sister, I have no choice but to take it.

So I say, "Got it."

Brittany links one elbow with San's and one with mine, pulling us into her sides. "Love makes the world go round," she says, rather randomly and in her wispy-wise voice.

Well, you can't really argue with that.

San pecks a quick kiss to Britt's cheek; then, together, we amble out of Rachel's room, down the hallway, stopping outside her dads' bedroom.

I issue three brief knocks onto the gleaming wood.

A few seconds later, the door opens, revealing Rachel with a tentative smile on her face. The TV plays at a respectable volume behind her, the sound of a man and a woman arguing over groceries.

"So?" she says, eyebrows arching. "Everything all right?" Her eyes jump to Santana, Brittany, and when they land on mine, they stay there, softening around the edges.

Brittany slips her elbows out from mine and San's and surprises us all by lurching forward, flinging her long arms around Rachel's upper biceps and yanking the much shorter girl against her.

Rachel makes an adorable "_oof!_" sound as Brittany proceeds to hug all the life out of the poor girl.

"You are a Sparkle Unicorn, Rachel," she says, leaning down to press her cheek right against the top of Rachel's head. "Don't ever change, even the annoying parts of you, 'cause you're awesome."

My heart warms at the sight while a cheesy grin steals up my face. I sneak at look at San and see that she is biting back her own grin, shaking her head back and forth in small movements.

Then, as abruptly as the embrace started, it ends; Britt releases Rach and steps back between me and Santana, leaving Rachel to stagger backward and have to grab the doorframe to keep from falling on her ass from the momentum.

Rachel blushes bright red, smiling with equal halves confusion and delight. She tucks a tendril of dark brown hair behind her ear, her top teeth biting into her lower lip in the cutest and most bashful way. "Um, thank you?" she says it like a question, addressing Brittany but her eyes turning to me.

"No, thank _you_ for taking care of my Quinnie the Pooh," Britt responds, using her most affectionate and special nickname for me, only brought out on the most sentimental of occasions. "We couldn't be there for her at first, but you were, and that makes you a good person."

Rachel's smile lengthens, still staring at me, the amber tint of her brown eyes lightening to a radiant glow; I feel my face grinning back at her like an idiot, my stomach flipping over inside.

"Of course," Rachel says, quiet and sweet. They way our eyes remain locked makes my heart lurch forward with as much gusto as Brittany's body with her tackle-hug. "Quinn isn't exactly the type of person who's easy to turn away."

She directs her smile to Brittany now, leaving my mind to race, wondering what on earth she meant by that. Was it a compliment? Like, I'm intoxicating and irresistible? Or was it a comment on seeing me as codependent and weak, this pitiful creature whom people feel so sorry for that they can't _not_ help? Or maybe something else entirely?

_Ugh_.

"So, Berry, you got anything good to eat around here?" Santana asks, her tone for once devoid of even a hint of contempt or agitation toward Rachel.

Being as astute as she is, Rachel picks up on this, her posture further straightening, her face glowing with a fresh, pleased flush. "Why yes, I do! Follow me to the kitchen, and I'll show you."

As Rachel passes by me, her hand slips into mine as if it is the most natural thing in the world – thoughtless, reflexive, our fingers lacing together in a single, fluid movement. She doesn't break stride, tugging me after her, making me stumble over my feet for a moment as I break from my awe and hurry to keep up.

Almost tripping over my own feet – that must be why my heart has accelerated.

When we reach the kitchen, Rachel releases my hand so she can fling open the door to the fridge. Cool air rushes over my palm; I can almost hear it whistling through the gaps of my lonely fingers.

"Wow," Brittany says, staring in awe at the refrigerator's door, covered in a rainbow of ribbons and dozens of certificates. "You have a lot of awards."

"Yes," Rachel says, after pulling out a white perforated bowl of red grapes, a plastic bag of green apples, and a container of strawberries. "I don't believe there is such a thing as '_over_-achieving;' I believe even the sky is not the limit – you can always reach further if you try hard enough."

"Screw being a Broadway star," Santana says, hoisting herself up backwards to sit on the marble kitchen island. "I say you work for Hallmark, Berry, writing those inspirational cards." She kicks her legs back and forth, like a child on a too-big swing.

Rachel closes the fridge door and places her armload of fruits onto the island, right by Santana. A proud smile plays at her lips; I'm sure she's extremely pleased that San actually made a joke _with_ her rather than _at_ her for once – I know it certainly made me and Britt exchange surprised smiles.

"Thanks, but I'd much rather perform for thousands of awed, breathless audience members than sit in an office and write all day," she says before swatting San's knee and shooting her a scolding look. "Now off the counter; that is highly unsanitary, seeing as how I am about to prepare our snack on here."

"You callin' my ass unsanitary?" Santana asks with a scowl, but she hops down without needing to be told twice.

"Don't take it personally," Rachel says. "I wouldn't let any of us sit up there. Not even Quinn."

Santana raises her eyebrows at me, like 'And what makes _your_ ass so special?' I have to admit, it was kind of weird how Rachel singled me out like that, as if she would usually make exceptions for me to the rules…

Well, yeah, maybe she usually would.

This makes my smile widen far further than it should for such a simple thing.

I stick my tongue out at Santana gloatingly; she rolls her eyes but can't hide her own smirk of amusement.

"Brittany," Rachel says, grabbing the colander of grapes and heading for the sink. "Would you be so kind as to help me rinse the fruit? If you could handle the apples and strawberries, that would be lovely."

Brittany obliges, but first sneaking an unwashed strawberry into her mouth, leafy stem and all. One cheek bulges like a chipmunk's, and she hurries to chew the strawberry down, as if afraid of being caught and having Rachel lecture her.

A few minutes later, Rachel hands out a bowl to each of us, filled with grapes, apple slices, and strawberries. She sets out some caramel, honey, and vegan chocolate from the walk-in pantry.

I'm secretly relieved to see the honey – even though Rachel obviously won't eat it seeing as how she's a vegan, I am glad to know that she doesn't expect me to have to follow her moral diet while I stay at her house.

I mean, sure, I love animals as much as the next person, but I could never become a vegetarian because _bacon_. And ice cream! … And – Sorry, I'm babbling.

We prepare our fruit salads in our preferred ways (I add a lot of honey to mine), grab a fork from the silverware drawer, and sit down at the table to eat.

"So, Q," Santana says, spearing a chocolate-dunked grape with her fork. "In light of all the drama-rama in your life, are you still going to run for prom queen?"

"San, you do know that the senior class collectively decides who the prom court nominations are, right?" I ask. "This is the second time you've asked me that question in the past month or so, and for the second time I'll tell you: I can't control if I'll be running or not."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Drop the false modesty bullshit," she says, causing Rachel's lips to purse at the colorful word. "You're totally hot, wear enviable clothes, and you were a semi-loser last year but popular again this year – everyone loves a good comeback. With all that, you're a shoe-in for prom court. Just like I'm guaranteed a spot in the running 'cause I'm sexy as hell and tell it like it is, making people both desire me _and_ fear me, which is, like, the ultimate combination."

Brittany nods and lifts her fork in the air like an approving finger.

"So what I'm _saying_," Santana continues, finally bringing the grape to her lips and plucking it off with her teeth, "is that _when_ you get elected to run for prom queen, are you going to run, or will you drop out of the race?"

"All right, I understand now," I chuckle, shaking my head. "Okay, 'if' or 'when' or '_whatever_' I get nominated, then yeah, I guess I'll stay in the race." A shrug bobs my shoulders.

It's weird; I remember how much I obsessed over prom queen last year. My mom and I even wrote an acceptance speech and practiced my 'surprised-and-grateful' face in the mirror. Now that I think about it, it was more of _her_ dream than mine. Her mom and sister were both prom queens back in the day, and she was _thisclose_ to winning the title for herself.

Since Mom couldn't do it, I guess she was trying to live vicariously through me. I'm just glad to realize how shallow this whole thing is now; obsessing over whether or not my peers think I'm worthy of a plastic tiara just doesn't have as much substance to it anymore.

"I think it would be good for you to do so," Rachel says, pulling me out of my brief daydream. She speaks with a wise tone and wears her matter-of-fact face. "It will provide you with some healthy competition and harmless fun, enabling you to push aside your more daunting worries and focus on the glib ones for a while."

"I don't understand, like, half of what you just said," says Brittany, eyebrows puckered and neck drawing backward. "Seriously, was that gibberish or something? But, yeah, Quinn, it'll be fun to see you and San running against each other. I'll get to help you both make your campaign posters, right?" She claps her hands together, eyes shining with excitement.

"Sure," I laugh, her giddiness proving to be contagious.

"Hell to the yeah," Santana says, doing a little boogey dance in her seat.

"And you think _I'm_ a dork?" Rachel snickers, lifting an eyebrow as San starts to do the cabbage patch.

Britt and I burst into giggles; Santana opens her mouth to retaliate, but after a moment of glaring at everyone, a smile slips across her face and she starts laughing with us, perhaps loudest of all.

"_Touch__é_, Berry," she says. "_Tou_-fucking-_ch__é_."

And for once, Rachel is too busy enjoying herself to bristle at the curse word.

* * *

><p>San and Britt leave about fifteen minutes later.<p>

Once the hugs have been doled out and our two Cheerio friends are prancing off down the sidewalk, Rachel closes the door behind them and turns to me with a peppy grin. She claps her hands together and does a quick bounce on her tiptoes.

"So!" she says. "That went well, right?"

I smile. "Definitely."

Rachel nods a few times, her cupped hands swinging back and forth. "I'm going to get started on dinner. Would you like to help, or would you like to have some alone time?"

I can't help but raise my eyebrows. "I thought your dads said you were a terrible cook?"

Rachel sticks her hands on her hips and tosses her hair back with her neck. "I may not be a born-natural Julia Child, but I do have a few tricks up my sleeves. Like that pasta last night – that was my recipe, remember?"

"_Your_ recipe?" I can't help but rile her up; it's too much fun, seeing her get all indignant and huffy like this. I put on my most innocent expression, eyes wide and head tilted ever-so-slightly to the side. "You mean that you made it up from scratch and everything?"

She lifts her chin. "I found it in a vegan cookbook," she says, mouth puckering back at the edges. "But still… if it weren't for me – "

I burst out in laughter, unable to hold it back. "Rachel! It's okay! You don't have to be perfect at _everything_, all right?" I step forward, planting my hands on her shoulders and making her look me in the eyes. "In fact, people are actually more interesting when they _aren't_ good at every little thing; it helps make us unique, you know?"

I lift one of my hands from her shoulders and use my forefinger to flick the tip of her nose; she scowls at the action.

"So, stop pouting," I say, "and let me see than million dollar grin."

Rachel's lips twitch before finally pulling back, slow with reluctance, not showing off even one of her pearly teeth.

I emit a mighty _tsk_ing noise, shaking my head at her.

Egged on by my disapproving reaction, her tight smile pulls up until stretched into a full-blown smirk.

"My grin is worth _much_ more than a million dollars, Fabray," she says, reaching up to lightly pinch the tip of my nose between thumb and forefinger. She gives it a little wiggle before releasing. "And don't you forget it."

I'm about to roll my eyes at her, but her face splits open in a sunny grin, a small giggle escaping her throat, childishly amused with herself.

So, I find myself grinning back instead, wondering how I can stand someone who's so _impossible_, so damn _dorky_….

Rachel giggles again before holding out her arm; she rocks back and forth on her tiptoes. "Come on," she says. "If you think I'm such a terrible cook, it's only fair if you show me some pointers."

… Someone who's so unfairly _cute_.

Once my elbow is linked with hers, Rachel leads the way back to the kitchen, literally _skipping_, a means of walking that all _mature_ people outgrow after the sixth grade.

And yet somehow, I find myself skipping right along with her, my giggles the loudest of all.

* * *

><p>Tonight's dinner is going to be awesome.<p>

I helped Rachel prepare a simple vegan stir fry (that started to burn and almost suffered too much Kosher salt when she was taking care of it, so I had to quickly take over and delegate her to vegetable-chopping) for her and Hiram, but I made me and Leroy one of my specialties: grilled cheese sandwich with three different kinds of cheese, the bread buttered before toasted on the skillet.

Mr. Berry^Squared should be here any minute now; Rach and I have just finished setting the table, my grilled cheese sandwiches hot off the pan, soft plumes of smoke curling upward and carrying the scent of heaven itself with it.

"I'm relieved," I admit, once everything's finished and we're sitting across from each other.

"Yes," Rachel smiles, making sure her fork and knife are arranged neatly on her folded napkin. "Same here; dinner is a success! I actually made something without severely burning it or adding too much seasoning, and I think I have to you thank for that."

I plant a hand over my heart. "Well, _gol-ly!_ Did Rachel Barbra Berry just confess to not being the best at something? Did she just _thank _little ol' me and pretty much say I'm better than her in the culinary field?" I make a show of twisting around in my seat, turning back around to stare at the four corners of the kitchen ceiling, and finally, lifting up the fancy tablecloth and peering under the table before coming back up and staring at Rachel out of wide eyes.

She rolls her eyes but chuckles. "What are you doing?"

"Checking for hidden cameras. I mean, I must be getting _Punk'd_, right? This can't be real life."

Rachel tries her damndest to look offended, but her mouth keeps flicking upward in amusement. She huffs, trying to disguise another chuckle, making the sound come out like a wheezy snort.

"Ha, ha," she says without inflection. "Very funny. Who knew you were such a little comedian?"

"I am a woman of many talents," I say, tossing my neck back regally.

"You're a woman of many _something_, all right," she grumbles. I can't help but laugh, and soon she is, too.

"Anyway," I say, "you're welcome for helping you with dinner; it was fun. But that's actually not what I was talking about when I said I'm relieved."

"Oh? Then what is it?"

"I'm glad that I can still eat non-vegan and non-Kosher foods here. I think it's nice of you not to give me a hard time for eating cheese."

Rachel bats a hand through the air. "Oh, no, don't worry about it. Daddy is definitely not a vegan, and though he is certainly Jewish like me and Papa, he doesn't stick to a Kosher diet either. I bet he's happy to finally have someone around whom he can eat cheeseburgers and hot dogs and other barbaric foods with."

I toss Rachel a look at her referring to some of my favorite meals as 'barbaric,' but she just shrugs innocently.

"Hey, eat what you want to eat," she says. "Just don't rub it in my face or…" She shudders.

"Or what?"

"Or…don't forget I'm a vegan and cook meat for me and not realize that this is bad until _after_ I've eaten half of the dinner that I thought was meat-substitute, and then I proceed to spend the rest of what was supposed to be a lovely evening throwing up in your toilet from the horror of it all, and crying as I bemoan the poor animals I helped contribute to the death of, while you stand outside the door apologizing for an hour and continuously proclaiming that you don't know what the 'big deal' is, and…"

She cuts herself off, gulping in air; she just said all of that with a crazed, faraway look in her eyes, starting out slowly but gradually gaining speed until she was rambling like an auctioneer, glaring down at her empty plate and practically yelling at the poor inanimate object.

My eyebrows leap straight to my hairline. _What the hell?_ "Um…" I say, tucking a stray lock of my hair behind my ear with awkward fingers. "I would never do that, um… Are you speaking from experience?" I hope she's not, I hope this is just one of her vivid and melodramatic fantasies, because that would be a seriously awful thing for her to endure.

Rachel looks up at me, mouth pursed into a tight line, her head traveling left to right in stiff movements. Finally, she scrunches her nose and smacks her lips – as if ridding herself of an unsavory taste, and says, "Yes, actually. That was a true story between me and Finn a few months ago."

A strange, abrupt anger flashes through me; I turn rigid in my seat, teeth gritting at the thought of Finn being such a complete and total idiot. "Wow," I say, "that's just… Wow. What a bonehead!"

Rachel shrugs one shoulder. "I mean… I don't want to badmouth him, but… Yeah. It's one of my least fond memories of our time together. That, and when I discovered he lost his virginity to Santana."

I cringe, hating how wounded Rachel's eyes are, how her mouth is puckered up as if to stop it from frowning; I want wrap her up in a big hug and tell her to dump Finn once and for all, but before I can respond, there's the sound of the front door swinging open.

"_Giiirrrrl_iiiiiesss," Hiram sings in his best Ricky Ricardo impersonation, "we're _hooooo-oooooome!_"

"Is that _cheese_ I smell?" Leroy's booming voice asks, unable to hide his hope and awe.

Somehow, despite the heaviness of what we were just talking about, Rachel and I find ourselves exchanging smiles as her dads amble into the kitchen.

I guess when you have parents as awesome as hers, your problems and worries melt away in their presence like buttered bread on a hot skillet.

* * *

><p>Dinner flies by in a blur of laughter and warm conversation.<p>

It's great to see Rachel come alive again, her heavy sadness slipping off her shoulders like a wet coat, face brightening and giggles peppering the air from the banter unraveling amongst the four of us.

Leroy can't get over how delicious he thinks my grilled cheese is, praising me about a zillion times, saying how refreshing it is to be able to eat something with carbs for once.

Hiram is blown away by the fact that we cooked dinner at all, especially since the stir fry turned out "to be actually edible for once – er, no offense, Rach."

More than once, I am tempted to bring up Buttercup, to ask if it's okay if she comes and stays with us. But I can't just yet; I have a plan, one that I'm not keen on screwing up.

I'm going to spend this next week earning my keep – going above and beyond in the chores department, cooking and cleaning, and being on Pollyanna-worthy behavior – to prove that I will be responsible and worthy of taking care of my pet.

Of course, I'll have to talk it over with Rachel before asking her dads; I don't want to go behind her back for anything, especially if she wouldn't want to have a dog around.

Still, the main reason for me waiting to ask Leroy and Hiram, though, is because I would feel awkward propositioning them for something like this when I've only been here for two days. I don't want to put them out or make myself a nuisance; I'm extremely grateful to them for letting me live here, so I figure I should at least wait a week or so before requesting as large a thing as bringing my dog here.

After dinner, I try to volunteer for washing the dishes and cleaning up the table, but Hiram and Leroy are both equally adamant that whoever cooks should not have to clean afterward. This sort of throws a wrench into my plans for going above and beyond, but Mr. Berry^Squared will have none of my protests, insisting that Rachel and I go have some fun and get started on our weekend.

It turns out that, to Rach, getting started on her weekend means making sure she gets all of her homework finished before letting herself relax. I've always been slightly on the procrastinating side of things, waiting until Sunday afternoon – sometimes even late Sunday night – to do my assignments, but I figure that while staying here, it would do me some good to soak up Rachel's more responsible habits.

Rach and I work together, side-by-side on the couch in the living room, making sure to keep the TV off because I get distracted easily. (Yeah, distracted _very_ easily, apparently, considering I keep getting occupied with how Rachel's thigh presses against mine, or the way she gathers her hair and lets it all drape over one shoulder, framing her face and falling past her breast in a glimmering curtain of dark-chestnut silk.)

It seems to take forever, but finally – _finally_– I've caught up with my make-up work from Thursday and fought my way through the other small mountain of schoolwork from today. Rachel finished at about the same time as I do turning to me with a giant grin and saying, "See? Don't you feel so much better, so much _lighter_ now, knowing that you don't have anything else to worry about over the weekend?"

I do feel a lightness floating through my stomach and fluttering around my heart, but I have a suspicion that it has little to do with my completed assignments and much more to do with the way she's just rested her hand onto the back of mine and is smiling at me with all her straight white teeth and her shining eyes.

And I think she's wrong.

Considering the tingles that shoot outward from where her hand lingers, I think that I do have something else to worry about.

Something like, why do I always feel so disoriented whenever she touches me like that?

Why do I always feel so disoriented, but also so recharged, so _alive_, when I'm around her?

* * *

><p>The night hits ten o'clock as we meet up in Rachel's bedroom.<p>

We've each done our nightly routines: make-up off, hair washed and dried, and our bodies dressed comfortably in our nightclothes.

I wear my prettiest nightgown, long and silk and this gorgeous dark aqua-green that looks amazing with the browns and greens of my hazel eyes. It even has these chic, girlie cap-sleeves.

Rachel wears yet another matching pajama set, this one a short-sleeved top and long pants, both made of white satin and covered all over with a mixture of tiny yellow, orange, or gold stars shooting upward with glittery tails behind them.

My hair is worn down, parted to my left; it has extra thickness and volume from being freshly showered; Rachel's is clipped atop her head in a simple twist, her bangs appearing to be fluffier than usual.

"Now this just isn't fair," she says when I enter the room, closing the door behind me with the heel of my bare foot. She bounces into a sitting-straight position from the top of her neatly made bed, propped against her pillows with her legs crossed beneath her.

"What isn't fair?" I ask, walking over and flopping down beside her, landing on my stomach. I lift myself up on my elbows, chin resting in my hands; my legs curl up behind me, ankles locking.

Rachel is way too adorable in her star pajamas, with her hair in such a casual style. It's crazy; even without any make-up, she is… I mean, just look at her! She's so naturally beautiful.

I can't help but gaze up at Rachel from beneath my naked eyelashes to make them appear longer and my eyes appear bigger, a trick I learned years ago from having to flirt my way up the social ladder to the most popular boys.

I can't help but to smile my loveliest smile, to tilt my head a bit to the right to show off my good side and to ensure my hair tumbles just past my shoulders in all its golden-blonde glory.

I can't help to, for some reason, wish that maybe, just maybe, she'll think I'm as beautiful as I think she is.

Which is all totally insane, because she's just _Rachel_. She's just my _best friend_, is all. She's nothing more… She _can't_ be anything more.

Rachel groans and swats me on the shoulder, staring at me not so much with the longing I was hoping for, but rather with frustration. "This is what I'm talking about! _This_," she waves her hand toward me, her fingers wiggling like a sorceress casting a spell, "is what is so unfair!"

I laugh, half-confused and half-just-needing-to-expell-the-suddenly-nervous-energy-coursing-through-my-system. "What? I'm kind of lost."

"You!" Rachel says with great exasperation, throwing her arms into the air and letting them land with a righteous _smack_ upon her thighs. "You are so incredibly gorgeous, even without any make-up or even any lip-gloss. Even your _pajamas_ are the epitome of fashion-forward and fabulous."

Warmth spills through me from head to toe, making my smile blow open into a toothy grin. I hope she doesn't notice the heat I feel in my cheeks, redness blooming under my skin like a rose. I think that might give too much away… But give too much away of _what_, I don't know.

"Rach," I say, having to consciously stop myself from starting to chew on my lower lip. "You're 'incredibly gorgeous,' too. Even right now, you're…breathtaking." I don't know where the _hell_ that came from, but the word jumps from my mouth without warning; I blush harder.

Rachel smiles a shy smile, her cheeks turning pink. She looks down at her knees and lets her fingers run back and forth over her bangs for a few seconds. Once she's composed, she lifts her head and allows her eyes to meet mine again. Right where they should always be.

"You really mean that?" she asks.

"Of course! I'm not one to spew off false flattery," I point out. "Surely you've realized that about me by now."

Rachel nods, her fingers wringing together in her lap.

I eye their nervous movement for a few seconds before gazing back up at her. "Hey," I say softly, barely above a whisper. "Where is this coming from? You're usually Miss Confident Diva Extraordinaire."

She sighs, big enough to work all the way up through her body, finally heaving out with a jiggle of tense shoulders. "I didn't want to say anything, because I know how you've been going through a lot lately, and I don't want to make you have to deal with my petty problems on top of everything else…" She flicks her eyes to the ceiling and throws her head backward.

I roll myself off my stomach and sit next to Rachel against the pillows, tucking my legs into my side and turning to fully face her. "Hey, hey, hey." I use gentle fingertips to rest on the side of her chin and redirect her stare back to mine. "I am _always_ here to listen to any so-called 'petty problems' you have, all right? I don't care how bad things are going for me; that doesn't mean I'm going to let my best friend'shappiness fall by the wayside." I drop my fingers away from her chin, wondering if she felt something crackle through the touch like I did.

Rachel brightens from inside-out, eyes widening and sunny smile popping little dimples into her rosy cheeks. "I'm your best friend?"

I laugh at her childlike glee. "_Duh_, silly! I mean, I have Puck, Santana, and Brittany, but who's the one I turned to in my greatest time of need, huh?"

Rachel's grin turns more than a little smug, more than a _lot_ triumphant.

"It's just…" she giggles. "I've never had a real best friend before. Sure, Kurt's great, and I've even gotten close with Blaine lately, but sometimes I feel like they get annoyed with me easily. I've grown to consider you as a best friend over the past month, but I never thought you would return the sentiment, and…" She interrupts her own babbling with another giggle and a shake of her head. "Sorry! It just has such a beautiful ring to it: 'best friend.'"

I feel my facial muscles softening as I look at her; my heart goes out to this girl. She used to be bullied – Slushied every day…sometimes _twice_ a day; mean comments on her now-retired MySpace page; no one to sit with at lunch.

The worst part is, _I_ used to be one of her tormentors. _I_ used to stroll by, tossing not a Slushie at her, but rather something far worse: Words.

I would oh-so-casually throw her the cruelest of remarks over my shoulder, letting them burn into what I thought was a gratingly superior face that needed to be reminded of where it stood in the social pecking order. Well, that was what I told myself why I did it, ignoring the other, much more deeply hidden reason….

I have never hated myself more than I do in this moment, remembering how terribly I treated her, remembering all the times I would walk by her with San and Britt and laugh as I witnessed some jock attacking her with a colorful explosion of half-ice, half-liquid, all-humiliating froth.

Rachel deserves a best friend, but why should it be me? What makes me worthy of her companionship?

I have yank myself out of these thoughts when I realize she's peering at me curiously, probably wondering why I look so deep in thought.

"Yeah!" I say, and thankfully the smile I manage to conjure doesn't feel as forced as I thought it would.

I shove aside my negative feelings and focus on the positive, on the both simple and profound fact that I am _not_ that girl anymore, that I'm no longer Bitchy Cheerleader Quinn.

"Best friends," I say, and this time my smile is easy as pie.

"So!" I clap my hands together. "What's bothering you? Don't hold back for my benefit; I think it will actually help me to focus on problems other than my own for a while, anyway."

"Okay." Rachel takes a deep breath. "I'm upset with Finn." She waits, gauging my reaction.

Not surprised, I nod, encouraging her to continue.

"Sometimes, there are patches in our relationship where a bout of insecurity on my or his behalf will flare up," she says, holding eye-contact with me but returning to fiddling with her fingers. "It's been like this ever since I found out he slept with Santana, and he found out I went after Puck to get back at him. So, earlier today, when he said he doesn't trust me and Puck hanging out alone… It just brought back a lot of bad memories and a lot of bad feelings."

"I can understand why it would still bother you; the status of his virginity was a hee-_uge_ thing to lie about on Finn's part. And, yeah, you probably shouldn't have tried to get back at him with Puck, but you were really hurt by it. It's not like Finn is the most remorseful and understanding person out there," I have to tell myself to settle down, to control the bitter edge starting to harden my tone. "But I thought you guys got past all this last year when you got back together? A clean slate and all that."

"Yeah, I thought that, too," Rachel sighs, brow and mouth tugging down into matching frowns. "But I… Okay, this is embarrassing for me to admit." She covers her face with her hands.

"What is it?" I ask. My eyebrows pucker; my heart squeezes painfully. I hate seeing her like this.

She peels her hands away. "Sometimes… Sometimes, I think maybe I'm not pretty enough for him. He had sex with Santana, the second prettiest girl in school! How am I supposed to compete with that?"

"Easy," I say, scooting closer to her. I offer an honest, encouraging smile. "You're the _first_ prettiest girl at school, so no competition is needed."

Rachel rolls her eyes and scoffs. "Oh, please, Quinn, no false flattery," she chides. "We both know that _you're_ the prettiest girl in school – in all of Ohio, actually." Her tone is matter-of-fact and maybe a little jealous, but thankfully it's not resentful.

I don't know whether to be complimented by this or to feel guilty, but what I _do_ know is that I don't like this – I don't like Rachel putting herself down, thinking she's anything less than amazing both inside _and_ out.

"Stop it," I say sternly.

"Stop what?"

"Stop pitying yourself!" I flash her a fierce look that silences the protest forming on her lips. "I'm going to tell you something important, so listen carefully, okay?" I don't wait for her to respond. "You, Rachel Berry, are a _star_." I point my forefinger at her, letting those words soak in for a second before continuing.

"You are a star because you have a singing voice that gives chills to anyone in a five-mile radius. You are a star because your stage presence is not _worthy_ of Broadway, it _transcends_ Broadway. You are a star because you believe this better than anyone, and believing is half the battle.

"That's what makes you a star on the inside, so how you look on the outside doesn't even matter. But lucky for you, your outer beauty shines just as bright!"

I hold up a hand so she'll know I'm not finished, taking a moment to collect myself from talking too fast or rambling. It's important I get this out without messing it up; I owe it to both of us to say this just right.

"Do you remember last year when you wanted to get a nose job?"

"Of course I remember."

"I never got to say I'm sorry."

Rachel looks confused. "Uhm, why would you need to apologize?"

"Because I almost let you go through with getting a nose job!" I look her right in her eyes, not letting myself tear away even though I feel ashamed. But it's time I start owning up for my past wrongdoings.

I take Rachel's hands inside of mine, hoping I give her as much solace and comfort as she always extends to me.

"You have a great nose," I say. "And I should have told you that then, but I was too blinded by flattery that you wanted mine. I was selfish, shallow, and pushed you toward a terrible decision, and I'm sorry."

Tears sting my eyes, but I manage to blink them away before they can fall. I realize I'm clenching my hands around Rachel's like a vice, so I loosen my grip.

Rachel stares back at me with such tenderness, as if _I'm_ the one who deserves sympathy right now. "Quinn," she says gently. "It's okay."

"No," I say firmly, ignoring the quick tremor of my chin. "It's not okay. But I _am_ sorry, and I hope that you can forgive me."

"Already forgiven," she says with a tiny smile. "Ancient history."

I release a breath I hadn't known I was holding. "Good."

A beat passes between us, not uncomfortable but not exactly light either.

"So, back to you and Finn. You're upset with him…" I prompt.

"Yes, I am. I don't feel that it's right for him to not trust me with Puck, considering I would trust him with Santana."

"Would you really, though? Can you honestly say you wouldn't mind if you knew Finn and Santana were hanging out one-on-one?" For some reason, it feels crucial for me to know this; I wait for her response with bated breath. Whatever her answer is, it will reveal a lot about the core of her relationship with Finn.

I realize I am still holding her hands, but I can't bring myself to let go.

Rachel makes a face. "Okay, honestly… I _would_ mind. I know Santana would obviously never try anything with him now that she has Brittany, but…"

She trails off, so I finish for her. "But you think _Finn_ would try something."

"Not _would_ try something," Rachel says. "_Might_ try something. And to me, having to wonder all the time is just as bad."

"But!" she adds quickly, "He would only stray if he were pursued first; he would never actively go after someone else and cheat on me, but I believe if a gorgeous enough girl tried to seduce him, she would eventually succeed."

"Rach," I say, slowly, as if the speed I utter my verdict will help soften the blow. "Trust is a major factor in a healthy relationship, second only to honest communication. The fact that you don't believe Finn will be one-hundred percent faithful… Honestly, that doesn't sound like the ideal relationship." I screw my mouth to the side and shake my head.

"I know," she says, her tone hosting an emotion that I can't for the life of me pinpoint. "But it's the one I have. And at the end of the day, I'm happy for it, because I really do love Finn. He makes me feel…special."

"You don't need him or anybody else to be special."

"Sometimes I know that; sometimes I don't. Being with Finn makes the times I doubt myself not hurt as much, because all I have to do is remember my gorgeous, cool, leader-of-the-pack boyfriend who chose _me_." One corner of Rachel's mouth stretches up into a wistful half-smile, letting a single dimple come out to play; her eyes brighten with pride.

This is wrong; this is so utterly, terribly _wrong!_ My mouth opens, closes, opens, closes… What do I say? How can I convince her that she doesn't need anyone – especially not _Finn_ – to be special? How do I tell this girl who I spent the past breaking down into pieces that she doesn't need anyone but her own awesome self to help her remain together?

Before I can think of anything, Rachel surprises all thoughts from my mind: she leans in and pecks a jaunty, smacking kiss onto my cheek.

"No more talking about heavy stuff!" she says with fresh grin. "We're going to pop in a movie and have _fun_."

She rolls off her bed and marches over to her DVD selection, hands on her hips as she surveys the options.

And I am left frozen on her bed, my fingertips rising to my cheek, pressing tenderly to the warm spot her lips left behind.


	27. Chapter 27

Hey, guys. :D Sorry it took me so long to get this out. I wanted this to be longer and to include the anticipated Buttercup scene in here, but I figured it's best to give you guys this right now rather than make you wait even longer just for a lengthier chapter. But I promise the Buttercup stuff will be in the next chapter!

**A note: **The beginning of this chapter is very, very fluffy. There are two reasons for this: One, as you've probably figured out by now, my natural progression for this story tends to be fluff then angst, fluff then angst, etc., LOL. :P And, two, I wrote this right after my dog passed away, so my mind wanted me to write something lighter and happier than normal in order to distract me from the sadness.

Thanks again to everyone reading, favoriting, alerting, and especially reviewing, etc. You guys are the best, and I am truly grateful for each and every one of you. xD As always, I hope you enjoy, and be sure to let me know what you think. :)

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN<strong>

The movie Rachel picks out is _Funny Girl_; she said that, while I'm staying with her, it is crucial that she get me on the Barbra bandwagon as soon as possible. She said that as _Funny Girl_ is her favorite, she knew that would be the perfect one to start my Barbra Streisand introduction.

And you know what? I actually really like it. And not just because Rachel mouthed along to or whispered all of the words with even more passion than the actual actors. I could tell that, during the musical numbers, she wanted to sing along _sooo_ badly, but she was being very respectful, claiming that as it was my first time watching this, she didn't want her singing along or anything else to distract me from seeing Barbra perform.

The movie did the trick of cheering Rachel and me up from the serious conversation we had. By the time the movie ends, our stomachs are aching, filled with too much popcorn, candy, and laughter.

After _Funny Girl_'s end credits have finished rolling, something strange happens: I receive a call from a blocked number.

"Should I answer it?" I ask after the second ring, staring at the words 'UNKNOWN CALLER' flashing across my phone's screen.

"I would," Rachel says. "But then again, my intense curiosity and thirst for knowledge have gotten me into trouble multiple times before."

I hit the 'Answer' button before the fourth ring ends. "Hello?"

Silence.

"Put it on speaker!" Rachel says loudly, practically screaming right in my ear.

I laugh at her annoyingness and shove her shoulder, shooting her a reprimanding look. "_Shhh!_"

Still, I find myself hitting the little icon of a microphone, thus activating the speakerphone option and letting the sound of silence roar up from the line. "Hello?" I say, holding the phone up equidistance between me and Rach. "Who is this?"

Again, silence.

I huff. "If you don't say something, I'm hanging up."

"And if I were you," Rachel practically shouts, lowering her face to the mouthpiece, probably blasting the poor person on the other line's eardrums out, "I would tell us who you are right away, or else we will use the tracer activation feature on this phone, track you down, and make you talk to us in person!"

My only guess for why she's talking so loudly is because she thinks the connection may be bad, meaning that the person(s) on the other line is having a hard time hearing us, and that's why they're not responding.

Either that, or Rachel is just a spaz. (This is the more likely option, to be honest.)

I mean, seriously: "tracer activation feature"? I'm pretty sure you can't track down a blocked call unless you're on the police force or part of the CIA or something. (Or maybe you can, and I'm just woefully ignorant to technology.)

Still, the person says nothing. I can hear them breathing, inhaling sharply and exhaling raggedly, in this totally freaky way.

"All right, I'm hanging up now," I say, rolling my eyes at the person who called. _Gee, thanks for wasting my time, buddy; it sure was fun to listen to you breathe like an ax-murderer. Let's do it again sometime real soon._

"I'll have you know," Rachel says into the mouthpiece – quieter than before, but still absurdly loud, "that my dads are members of the FBI, and we will _trace you down_ if you do not reveal your identity RIGHT THIS INSTANT!"

My eyebrows shoot up past my forehead as I shoot a complete 'What. The. _Hell_.' look at Rachel. I know she's dramatic and likes to slip into roles every now and then, but she's taking it a bit too far. And seriously, _owww_, she just yelled that last part into _my _eardrum.

She gives me a sheepish look as I rub at my ear before she scoots away from the phone, as if being around it is what has caused her to start acting like a crazy person.

Bizarrely, the sound of a loud, tearful sniffle crackles over the phone, startling me so much that I do a little jump. And then the screen beeps, flashing 'CALL ENDED,' and returns to the background of Rachel and me grinning together, taken right before we went on to do that fateful mash-up last month.

"Did they just hang up?" Rachel asks, sounding as confused and irritated as I feel.

"Yeah," I say, staring down at my phone in an intimidating and accusing fashion, as if it will break under my stare and start talking like an interrogated criminal, spastically spewing out all of the dirty details. All that's missing is a metal chair for it to sit in, and one of those swinging lamps.

"Well," she says, flopping onto her back. "That was weird."

I toss my phone aside and lay down beside her. "You can say that again."

"Well," she says in the exact same tone and pitch, "that was weird."

I turn my neck to give her a look. She smiles at me, smug and proud of her childish antics.

"You're impossible!" I groan and full-out laugh at the same time. The result is an embarrassing sound that shouldn't exist on pure principle.

"I mean, come on; 'my dads work for the FBI'?" I echo with great incredulity. I shake my head back and forth, letting my hair whip against my cheeks.

"I figured the threat of involving two men of distinguished, authoritative law enforcement positions would intimidate the caller into speaking," she says defensively, a little "_hmph_" tagged onto the end as she folds her arms over her chest.

"I'm sure the volume of your voice did enough scaring on its own," I say, unable to stop myself from dissolving into giggles. "Seriously, you were like _va-VOOM!_"

Rachel scowls and lifts an indignant eyebrow. "'Va-voom'?" she echoes in a superior, condescending tone, as if _I'm_ the immature one.

"Yes," I say, my hand fisting around one of the pillows above us. "Va-voom." And with that, I smack her upside the head with a frilly hot pink pillow.

"Oh, it is so _on!_" Rachel says, the seriousness of her tone marred by a peal of high-pitched giggles.

As we launch into a full-blown pillow war, the mysterious phone call is driven right out of my mind.

We laugh our asses off as we attack each other with ridiculous battle cries.

I pound my chest like Tarzan, fling my head around until my hair is a wild mane, and then emit a pathetic attempt at a fierce lioness roar. I'm rewarded by Rachel laughing so hard that tears start rolling down her face.

We fight back and forth for several minutes, whomping each other with a pillow in each hand, giggling in a deliciously idiotic fashion.

It's the most fun I've had in ages, making me feel more light and airy than the few feathers floating around us.

But the _pièce de résistance_ comes from Rachel: "THIS. IS. BAAARBRAAA!" she shouts, a perfect imitation of the famous line from _300_, even following it up by crashing a pillow hard enough in my chest to make me fall onto my back.

"Shut! Up!" I wheeze between a new fit of breathless, stomach-cramping chortles. Wonderful tears stream down my warm face. "Aren't your dads sleeping?"

Rachel rolls around on her back, legs and arms kicking through the air like a capsized beetle. "I-I d-don't know!" She silent-screams another bout of laughter, rolling over and over until landing on top of me, sideways, her torso draped over my stomach while her front end dangles half-off the bed and her back end stomps against the covers with the force of residual guffaws.

I can't help but to stare in awe at Rachel's perky butt, her shiny white satin pants stretched taut over its defined shape. I can see the faint outline of her underwear, and I find myself wondering what they look like: are they silk, satin, black, pink, what?

As if activating a chain reaction of hormones, I'm suddenly _very_ aware of the feeling of her braless breasts pressing through her shirt and into my nightgown's gauzy material, right above my belly button.

I find myself breathless again, but this time I don't think it's from laughter.

Something aches down below, tingling between my legs – that hungry feeling from the other day; it makes my already adrenaline-accelerated heart further increase speed.

"Quinn?" Rachel says. "A little help here?" She swims her arms through the open space in front of her while the heels of her feet slip-and-slide atop the bedspread, trying to gain purchase.

"Oh," I say, a devious smirk inching up my face. "You're stuck, huh?"

"It appears so," she says, trying in vain to get off of me. She can't go forward, or she'll fall off the bed and hit the floor; she can't go backward, or she'll run into me and likely knock my jaw out of place with her flailing elbows.

I feel a rush of something crazed and carefree floating over me: Lion Quinn comes out to play once more. Not thinking, just _doing_, I snake my hands onto her back and trace a slow path to the sides of her ribcage.

"Lucy Quinn Fabray," Rachel says with enough sternness and severity to make a Catholic school nun proud. "Don't. You. _Dare_."

My smirk stretches up to my eyes, crinkling their corners. "Am I the best singer you know?"

"You are an excellent singer," she says. She sounds frustrated, probably because of the randomness of my question taking away from her time of need. "You have a wonderful lightness to your tone, wispy and airy and very unique. Now lemme go!"

"Nuh-uh-uh," I say, tapping one finger at a time against her ribs with each syllable. "Answer the question first."

"I just did!"

"It's a simple 'yes' or 'no,' Rach. Am I the best singer you know? _Yes?_ Or, _no?_"

"You're a great singer," she says diplomatically, wiggling around but barely managing to move an inch.

"_Raaaaacheeeellll,_" I sing as a warning, drumming my fingers against her ribs. "Remember which one of us is in the position of power right now. Hint: it's not the girl hanging half-off the bed and trying not to completely fall. Now, answer the question."

"Oh, I am _so_ going to get you for this!" Rachel huffs. "I know what you _want_ me to say; you _want_ me to say that _you_ are the best singer I know. However, that would be a boldfaced _lie_, seeing as how _I_ am the best singer I know!"

I can't help but to snort back a fresh laugh and to roll my eyes at her conceitedness. Sometimes, it's crazy to try and remember her deepest insecurities, because on the surface, she's vainer than Narcissus himself.

"I'm okay with you lying," I say breezily, knowing my blatant nonchalance will get under her skin the most. "Just tell me I'm the best singer you know, and I'll help you up. It's as easy as that, Rach." I dig my tickling fingertips a bit further into her sides, making her gasp out a reluctant giggle.

"I refuse to lie, especially when it comes to downplaying my talent. Now let me go, you traitorous beast! Now is not the time for your evil shenanigans!" Rachel speaks in a hilariously indignant voice, all her credibility lost when she non-ironically throws in such slang as 'shenanigans.' For that alone, I feel the need to teach her a lesson.

"Sorry, but you asked for it," I say, shrugging, even though she can't see it. "You should have told me I'm the best."

I press my fingers against her sides and wriggle them around, squeezing a path up and down; Rachel bursts into wild laughter at the tickling, bucking around like a horse, screaming at me to "stop, s-stop it _right n-now_, Qu-Quinn!"

Her hysterics are contagious, making me laugh just as hard as she is. "I'll only stop once you tell me I'm the best!"

Rachel kicks out, knocking a few stray pillows off the bed; she tries to reach her arms back and grab at my hands to halt their progress, but they're too short. "Never!" she wheezes.

"Come on," I tease between crazed giggles, my grin so wide it could wrap around my whole head. "It will do you some good to fluff somebody else's ego higher than yours for once."

Rachel manages to flip over, her front now in the air as her back presses into my stomach. Quickly, I take advantage, slipping my hands up onto her flat tummy and digging in. She screams with laughter, tears falling down her bright red face.

She does a crunch, – I can feel her abdominal muscles straining beneath my fingers – catapulting her upper torso out of the open space beside the bed and managing to sit up, half on top of me.

Still hooting with guffaws, Rachel slaps wildly at my hands and scoots to the other side of the bed – but in her haste to distance herself from my tickling fingers, she careens her entire flailing body right off the corner, landing with an audible _thunk_ onto the carpet below.

A hand flies to my mouth, accidentally whacking myself on the chin because my shoulders are shaking so hard with leftover chuckles. On hands and knees, I scurry over to the opposite end of the bed and peer over, inspecting Rachel's prone figure on the ground. Her arms and legs are spread out like a lizard; she is incredibly pathetic…and maybe sort of incredibly adorable, too.

"R-Rachel?" I let out a final laugh at her ridiculous position, the amusement beginning to seep out of me as it's replaced with concern.

_Oh, God, I hope I didn't hurt her! _I think, my stomach churning. _Oh my GOD, what if her neck is broken?_

Hey, I never said I was rational; we all have a bit of drama queen in us.

_Please don't be dead,_ I think, completely illogically, but still feeling some fear. I mean, she _is_ silent, after all, even though she was just shrieking and chortling not even half a minute ago.

My grin freezes on my face for a second before deflating altogether.

I hop off the bed, landing between her and her bureau. I crouch down and use ginger fingers to nudge at her stiff shoulder. "Rach?"

"Go away," she says, words muffled since her face is buried in the carpet. I release a relieved breath I hadn't known I was holding.

"Rachel isn't here right now," she mumbles. "Leave a message, and maybe she'll get back to you later. Except if you're Quinn. No Quinns allowed!"

I swat her shoulder, nothing ginger about my fingers this time. "Hey! You scared me, you jerk!"

"I am nothing," she says, the dramatic cadence of her voice warped by the floor. "I do not exist anymore. The evilness of your petty shenanigans have stolen the very breath from my lungs, the energy of my soul, the – "

"Oh my God," I huff, sticking my hands under her stomach and, with a mighty heave, rolling her onto her back. I retract my hands immediately so she won't think I'm about to tickle her again. "You are so freaking _dramatic!_ And, seriously, what the hell is with you using the word 'shenanigans'? That's the second time in one setting, and one time is _plenty_, trust me."

I stare down at her, hoping I look annoyed even though I'm sure I just look amused again, probably even downright affectionate; I puff a defeated breath upward, letting it blow of wayward lock of hair out of my eyes.

Rachel stares up at me out of amber-brown eyes that blaze with leftover laughter and a pinch of irritation; her mouth falls open in outrage. "What's wrong with the word 'shenanigans'?" she demands.

"Of course," I say, shaking my head. "You _wouldn't_ be offended that I tickle you mercilessly and call you 'freaking dramatic.' No, what you get upset over is that I insulted your word choice."

"What's wrong with my word choice?" Rachel bolts upward, coming to a stop with her elbows resting on her knees. She twists around to fully face me, lifting her eyebrows in defiance.

Sighing, I drop out of my crouch, landing on my butt and crossing my legs. I make sure my nightgown is draped over my lap, not wanting to pull a drunken-Hollywood-starlet and flash my crotch just yet. I mean, I'm wearing cute, pale pink underwear, but still…

… Oh God. Underwear.

I flash back to Rachel's perky butt, to her panty outline, and to the feeling of her breasts warming my stomach.

A blush starts on my neck and creeps toward my face.

"_Heh-loooooo!_" Rachel waves in front of my glazed-over gaze. "Earth to Quinn. Get back down here; you have some explaining to do."

Oh right. I clear my throat. "Uh, well, um… What?"

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Feigning sudden oblivion will get you nowhere. Now tell me, what's so bad about my lingo?"

Our entire conversation has a vague layer of _déjà vu _all over it. Wait… 'Lingo.' _A-ha!_

"This is just like last month, when we were at the Lima Bean to work on our mash-up," I say.

It's weird – that day feels so long ago, like a year rather than a month, but I'm able to recall it with all the clarity of something that happened just yesterday. "Do you remember? You said 'up top, girlfriend,' and then I told you not to use that slang, and then you said something about – "

"About the 'proper lingo of today's youth,'" Rachel finishes, smiling fondly at the memory. "Oh, yeah! Well, it appears that, even weeks later, not much has changed in regards to our conversational dynamics; you still don't appreciate the timeless appeal of my classic word choices, do you?" She crosses her arms over her chest, almost in a challenge.

"That's right," I say. "I'm not gonna appreciate your utter lameness." I stick my tongue out and close my eyes. When I open them again, I see that she's looking at me as if _I'm_ the one with the pitiable conversation skills.

"'Gonna'?" she echoes, not hiding her disappointment and disgust. "Did you really just use the horrifying improper grammar mechanics of a word like '_gonna_'?" She shakes her head sadly and reaches out a patronizing hand to give my knee a few slow pats.

I lift up my own hands, fingers fluttering like rabid butterflies.

"What, are you trying to spirit-finger me to death?" Rachel snorts. "Sorry, Quinn, but that only works on a cheerleading squad."

"No," I say, creeping my hands a few inches closer to her unimpressed face. "I'm just reminding you that I. Am. The. TICKLE MONSTER!"

I launch myself forward; Rachel lets out a delighted shriek as she jumps up and back onto the bed like a rabbit, insanely fast and just narrowly managing to miss my arms. I come out grabbing only air, my arms swinging across each other and bonking my opposite shoulders.

"Stay away from me, or I'll…"

"Or you'll _what?_" I climb to my feet and dust myself off.

When I look up, I see that Rachel is huddled at the top of her bed, holding out her two biggest pillows as shields, in a bent position so she can spring off the bed if necessary for a quick getaway.

"Or I'll…I'll…" A triumphant look crosses her face. "Or I'll tell Rick that you're secretly in love with him!" She cackles, and I swear it's like a witch. "You think he doesn't leave you alone _now_, even though you make it glaringly clear that you hate him; imagine how much more unrelenting he'll become when he thinks he really _does_ have a chance with you."

I glare at her smug smirk. It's a wonder she doesn't rub her hands together, throw her head back, and release a '_mwuhahaha!_' while she's at it; she's certainly acting diabolical enough.

"You wouldn't!"

Rachel arches a single eyebrow, like, _Do you really want to find out?_

And even though I should be annoyed or angry or something like that, I find myself smirking along with her. "And you're really okay with tossing your morality aside and embarking on your own set of 'evil shenanigans'?" I can't help but to throw in some mocking finger-quotes around those last words.

"Yup!" She smiles a long, close-lipped smile and nods her head a few proud times.

"I really hate you right now, you know that?" I say, with nothing but affection in my tone, as I spin on my heel and head out of her room – yeah, more like 'her evil liar.'

"Love ya, too, girlfriend!" she calls after me with an audacious amount of happiness.

I flick an indifferent hand over my shoulder, glad that my back is to her, so she can't see the smile spreading up my face, or the fresh blush coloring my cheeks.

I'm especially glad she doesn't have evil powers of super-hearing or whatever, because after that last comment, my heart started pounding away like a hammer.

* * *

><p>The rest of the weekend passes by in a blur of settling in and trying to make myself acclimated to what life with the Berries has in store.<p>

I sleep in until noon on Saturday, which is fine by me since I figure I needed the extra hours to recharge after all the emotional whirlwinds of the night before. (First, too much seriousness with Rachel; then, too much goofing around – we really need to find some sort of middle area so as not to overwhelm ourselves.)

I spend the day taking my time with unpacking my duffel: I organize my clothes in the closet, put away my underwear and accessories in the drawers, and set out my other things around the room in a tidy manner. In order to cancel out any sadness or nostalgia toward officially transferring my items from my old house to this one, I borrow Rachel's iPod stereo to jam around to the 'Feel Good' playlist on my own iPod while I unpack.

Last but far from least, I take the yearbook picture of Rachel out of the duffel's side pocket. There she is, in all her wallet-sized glory: gigantic grin, too-short bangs, and bright golden-yellow dress.

Smiling to myself, I set the picture on the edge of my nightstand, angling it to face my bed so I can look at it each night before I go to sleep. If Rachel's cheesy smile doesn't guarantee sweet dreams, then I don't know _what_ will.

After that's done, I try to go above and beyond with doing chores around the house. The only problem, and it's kind of a big one, is that the house is already freaking spotless. There's really not much for me _to _do.

My room's neat and tidy, I cleaned the hall bathroom, and I swept the kitchen, but there isn't anything else that calls to my attention. I don't even have enough dirtied clothes to start my own laundry load yet, and I can't do anybody else's laundry for fear of messing it up (I know from living with my anal parents how particular people can be when it comes to how their clothes are handled).

Rachel spends the day with Kurt and Blaine; she invited me to go with her, but I insisted that she go and hang out with her friends without me shadowing around for once.

Mainly, I didn't want to have to get all ready to leave the house; I really needed one of those 'stay at home in your pajamas and munch on an excessive number of snacks' kind of days. But also, I'm pretty sure Kurt kind of hates me, and I _know_ he disapproves of me and Rachel being such good friends and spending a lot of time together (subtlety is not one of Kurt's strong suits).

So, that's Saturday for ya: just a lot of tidying up on my part.

Sunday, Rachel is surprised to see me at the kitchen table eating breakfast. I showed up about five minutes before her, though she told me that she had expected my "lazy bones to snooze until at least eleven on a weekend morning."

I explain that my body's internal clock is used to getting up bright and early on Sundays because of church, so I decided I might as well get up and enjoy a full, long day.

And enjoy a full, long day we do.

Rach and I spend a good two hours in her mini-gym, lifting dumbbells at first, then having one of us on the treadmill while the other worked the elliptical before switching with each other. I wondered why Rach has an elliptical machine in her bedroom _and_ in the home gym, but then I figured that this gym is of course also used by her dads.

Speaking of Mr. Berry^Squared, they spend the day home from work. It turns out that Sundays are the Berries "Family Day."

At first, I try to shy away from their bonding time, but they won't let me; the four of us pile onto the living room couch and watch old black-and-white romances movies together.

We even order a pizza from this organic Italian place, and it's so delicious that I don't even care it's vegan.

I thought being around a happy family like the Berries would make me miss my own parents, or long for the love they never really showed me, but I feel so included and just so…_natural_ with Rachel and her dads, that I felt too warm and cozy to even garner a bit of homesickness towards my past life.

Yep, this weekend is truly just what I needed after such a frenzied week; it's a breath of fresh air, the beam of light shining at the end of the dark tunnel.

Granted, I don't think I've progressed enough to actually make it _through_ the tunnel and out into the sunny air just yet. But the fact that I can even see that ray of hope at all?

Well, it's more than I could've thought to ask for right now.

* * *

><p>"Perfect," Rachel says, rubbing her palms together and doing a brief upper-body happy dance.<p>

I grin and sling an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into my side. "Yep. It really is. Now my locker decor is officially complete."

The inside of my locker is like a miniature version of Rachel's bed's corkscrew headboard, with all of her dozens of pictures pinned there; the walls and inner door of my locker are covered with photos of me and my friends, held up with cutesy magnets (shaped like tiny red ladybugs or groovy peace signs).

There's a picture of me and Santana striking a dramatic pose; of me and Brittany sticking out or tongues and giving each other bunny ears; of _both_ San and Britt acting like the Charlie's Angels with me (this is pretty old, considering we're _all_ in our Cheerios uniforms here, even me).

There's a photograph of me sitting on Artie's lap, my legs and arms kicked up in the air like a showgirl while his face contorts into giddy laughter over my shoulder; one of me and Mercedes, taken at her birthday last year, me wearing that dorky party hat while she gets to wear a cool 'Birthday Girl' tiara, the two of us grinning like idiots; and one of me when I was ten years old, rolling around in the grass with puppy Buttercup in my old house's backyard.

There's even one of Sam: he has me in a loose headlock, ruffling my hair with his knuckles, staring down at me with a mixture of adoration and amusement; meanwhile, my face is caught mid-laugh, with my eyes wide and shining, and my mouth hanging open.

A pang of nostalgia zips through me as I inspect this particular photograph, this captured moment of time; it feels like it was taken a lifetime ago, or maybe from somebody else's life entirely.

My locker is a collection of my favorite things, a photo essay through the four years of my high school experience, showing how I've changed, how I've _progressed_, like a visual diary.

And now, as the latest addition, there is a picture of me and Rach, taken yesterday (Sunday evening).

We're wearing T-shirts and lounge pants (a step up from pajamas, but still kind of in the 'lazy bum' category), with my hair in the spunky pigtails Rachel loves so much, and hers worn down and slightly wavy. My head is on her lap, and I stare up at her face with a long, sunny smile; she stares at the camera with her mega-watt beam, head tilted slightly toward me: we both look like two adorable, super-happy goobers, and I think it captures the essence of our first weekend together perfectly.

And I _love_ how the magnet holding it up is a glittery, girlie heart, half pink and half red; it adds that extra _oomph_ to an already cute-as-can-be moment.

A fresh flow of warm happiness spreads through me, tingling my fingertips and toes. I let my arm squeeze Rachel's shoulders, quick and hard like a python, before releasing her diminutive frame.

After I gather my supplies for my before-lunch classes, I lock up my locker and fall into step beside Rachel. We have about fifteen minutes before the warning bell for first period rings, which should be plenty of time, but Rachel's locker is on the other side of the school from mine.

"Giddy up," I tease, tugging the end of her long French-braid.

Rachel laughs and swats my hand away. "I am not a horse."

"I know, silly. But your braid is _kuh-yooot_; could you do my hair like it sometime?"

She looks up at me, grinning with pride. "I would love to! Granted, your hair is a lot shorter than mine…" She reaches up to fiddle with my blonde tendrils.

"Hey, it's getting there," I say. "Considering it was a chin-length bob at the beginning of the year and has already grown to just past my shoulders, I would say that's pretty good progress."

As we amble down the hallways, I can't help but to inspect Rachel's outfit. She wears a sage-colored, knit cardigan sweater with a dark brown mini-skirt, black knee socks, and brown penny loafers. All that, paired with her sophisticated braid and brownish-red lipstick, make her look like … well, to be honest, like a pedantic librarian's assistant. In a year of her fashion hits and misses, this one is more on the latter's side.

And yet… I really like it. It makes me feel even more nostalgic than the picture of Sam and me back in our Happy Couple days.

When we reach her locker and she begins twirling the combination, I decide to voice my sentiments. "Your outfit reminds me of how you used to dress sophomore year."

"Oh really?" Rachel asks with a careful smile, as if unsure whether I'm about to compliment or insult her. _Puh-leeze,_ as if I could ever insult her anymore, even over her questionable wardrobe options.

"Yeah," I say, nudging my elbow into her side so she'll know to look at me and see that I mean no harm. "It reminds me that, deep down inside, you're still a big dork." I wink. "But a really _adorable_ dork who is able to pull off looks that nobody else can."

Rachel chuckles and arches her brow. "Oh, _I'm_ the dork, am I?" She snaps apart her glittery pink combination lock and opens her locker door.

"Yes; you are."

"I don't recall that _I_ was the one who claimed to be," she lowers her voice dramatically and swings toward me, her arms outstretched and her fingers wiggling, "the _Tickle Monster,_" she says in a dark, theatrical voice, "_OoooOOOOooohhhh!_"

I crack up laughing and slap at her hands as they start tickling my neck. Right below my chin is my most ticklish spot, but I don't want _her_ to know that.

"Quit it!" I laugh, ducking away.

"Now you know how I felt on Friday night," Rachel says with ample exasperation, rolling her eyes. But she wears a giant smirk of amusement as she turns back to her locker and hangs up her backpack.

Once she has what she needs, she locks her door back up and closes it… And then wastes no time in shifting her books to one arm so she can use her free hand to jump onto my stomach and start tickling.

Rachel giggles harder than I do, way too satisfied with her antics, as I squeal with half-delight and half-terror and stumble backward, desperate to get away…

…And end up colliding with something very tall and very solid. "_Oof!_"

Quickly, I step forward, putting myself next to Rachel, and spin around to face whomever I just ran into.

My giggles vanish, my grin slides right off my face, and my arms fold across my chest.

_Finn_.

I let myself check Rachel's reaction for about one second before I turn back to glare at him; for her part, Rachel's expression has darkened, but not in anger. Rather in… I don't know, it's something indiscernible. Like, a cool indifference mixed with a bit of irritation and an underlying layer of reluctant hope.

Finn stands before us with his hands in the pockets of his well-worn jeans. Of course I'm pissed at him for not making an effort to text Rachel first or call her all weekend, but I also feel a teeny-tiny twinge of sympathy for him.

I mean, the guy's wearing a dark red puffy vest over a long-sleeved shirt of plaid blue flannel; it's hard to be one-hundred-percent furious with someone whose fashion sense is so naïve and pitiable. Especially when he's looking at us out of big brown puppy eyes, his mouth curled up at one end in a shy half-smile.

"Hey, guys," he says.

"Hello," I say, dryly.

When Rachel remains silent, he focuses his gaze just on her and gives a little nod. "Hey, Rach."

"Hello, Finn," she says. I hate how her voice is far more soft and nervous than it is brash and angry, like it _should_ be.

_Come on, Rach,_ I think. _Don't let him off the hook so easily_.

"Can I talk to you for a sec?" Finn asks. He widens his eyes and cocks his head.

_Stop it!_ My mind yells at him. _Stop being cute! It's hard for Rachel to remain angry at you when you're so annoyingly cute, you jackass._ Whoa… Where did that come from?

"Talk away." I pull a hand out from my crossed arms and flick it at him, indicating he hurry up and be done with it. I widen my eyes, but with an emotion on the opposite spectrum of his 'innocent and earnest.'

"Um, I kind of meant, like, _alone_," he says, staring down at his sneakered foot as he drags the tip of it back and forth across the tiled floor.

I turn to Rachel; my stomach sinks when I see how she's twirling the end of her braid around her forefinger as she peers up at Finn bashfully from her long lashes. Any hope I had for her pulling an 'I am woman; hear me roar' goes out the window.

"Do you want me to stay here?" I ask her. "Or do you want to talk to him in private?"

_Please say 'stay,' please say 'stay', please say 'stay'…_

"I think in private would be best," she says, smiling at me gently and patting my arm. Like, 'run along now, Quinn. You are not fit to hear the adult matters of our oh-so-mature relationship.'

Irrational anger flashes through my veins; I knock Rachel's hand off my arm by shaking my shoulder. Then, without gracing either one of them with a parting glance, I square my shoulders and march off down the hall, my nostrils flaring as a bitter taste fills my mouth and parches my throat.

_Yeah, Rachel and Finn, run back to each other, why don't you? Continue on with your dysfunctional relationship with all your trust issues and insecurities. Don't mind me; I'm just the loyal friend walking away from your romantic reconciliation. Nothing to see here_.

My breathing turns labored as my hands ball into tight fists.

Why does it even bother me? They _are _serious boyfriend-and-girlfriend, after all. I mean, I'm not blind: I see the way she lights up when he's around, and the way he looks down at her like she's this prize he spent all of his quarters on to beat the game and finally win. They _have_ gone through a lot to get to the place where they are now, a couple who beat all the odds, and _yadda yadda yadda_.

I mean, _puh-leeze! _Rachel is my best friend. I'm _thrilled_ that she's willing to work on her relationship issues and strengthen her bond with her precious Finny.

So, the way my stomach is bubbling with acid? The way my heart is squeezing? The way I want to kick Finn for barging in on our conversation and then scold Rachel for brushing me aside?

Those are obviously just friendly feelings of wanting to protect Rachel from being hurt by Finn, after all the times he's betrayed her and dumped her in the past.

There's no way I'm actually…_jealous_.

Because that would involve romantic feelings.

And it's not like I'm already enough of a walking cliché without adding 'secretly pining after best friend' to my list.

I still have enough dignity to make sure I never fall into _that_ particular trope.

I turn around when I reach the end of the hallway, unable to stop myself from checking on them.

Finn's back is to me, but I can see that Rachel wears an appeased smile. She lifts up on her tiptoes and he hunches down, allowing her access to throw her arms around his neck; his long arms envelop her small waist, pulling her into him. Their torsos merge together, and Rachel disappears from view.

My breath is stolen from my lungs; my heart gives one last painful squeeze before sinking to my navel; my fists tighten so furiously that one of my knuckles gives a _crack_.

Pivoting on my heel, I flee the scene, borderline running to the nearest girls' bathroom so I can lock myself inside a stall, catch my breath, and calm the hell down.

I huddle in the corner of the back stall, my arms wrapped around my middle, my eyes squeezed shut as I take deep breaths and try not to think about what I just saw and all of the acrid emotions that it's making me feel.

I think back to not wanting to be another cliché. Is it too much to not want a-freaking-_nother_ issue to have to deal with? On top of my crisis of faith, getting disowned by my parents, and trying to truly come into my own with my sexuality, now I have something _else_ thrown at me?

_No, I won't!_ I think. _I won't feel this way… I _can't _feel this way… I won't be like everyone else. I won't be stupid and have a crush on my best friend!_

I flashback to Rachel and Finn hugging, sealing their forgiveness, ensuring their status as Glee's It Couple lives on for another day.

My stomach feels like its insides are shrinking around each other.

_Oh, who am I_ _kidding? _

_I'm screwed._


	28. Chapter 28

And I'm back, bitcheeezzzz! *Which makes you all promptly leave from my embarrassing display of 'trying to be hip'*

Oh goodness, I could go on and on with excuses for why it's taken me so ridiculously long to update this, but in order to save time (and your patience), I will just say I really am so sorry for having gone so long without an update. :-/ I do promise that I never gave up on this story, and that I _will _never give up on this story. Hopefully I can even have the next installment out a lot quicker than this one! Keep those reviews coming; knowing that people are invested in this story is what keeps me updating. *Hugs*

A few things before we get started, if I may:

1) Anonymous user 'Cat' asked: "Did you make up their outfits by yourself, or did you type what you saw them wearing on the show? :D" Thank you for reviewing, first of all. xD Second of all, I'm going to answer this here because you are anon so I can't really privately reply to you, lol. Anyway, I actually do make up their outfits, though oftentimes I'll look up Quinn and Rachel's fashion to pull from stuff they've worn before but just give it a new twist or something. Also, not all the time, but there are quite a few instances where what they are wearing is actually symbolic (one example that springs to mind is when Rachel shows up wearing a white dress and red ribbons in her hair outside Quinn's door; that outfit is very metaphorical). But don't think that anytime I'm mentioning what they wear, I'm doing it to be all fancy-schmancy symbolic or whatever; I just genuinely like mentioning their clothes b/c I believe that Quinn is a fashion-oriented enough character to notice it and talk about it, and also it helps to visually set the scene for the audience. (And wowza, this was a long reply to your answer; I bet you regret asking it now, lol. ;D)

2) ZOMG, YOU GUYS, RACHEL BEING BAD AT COOKING IS NOW OFFICIALLY ESTABLISHED IN CANON! I don't know why this makes me so happy, hahaha, but just knowing that Rachel really _is _a bad cook and not just in my story, it made me feel a false sense of pride at myself, haha. :D

3) This chapter is looooonnnngg. Like, more than twice as long than the previously awarded Longest Chapter on here. I hope you guys enjoy it, though! I didn't really see a place where I could cut it into two chapters, and even if I had, I probably wouldn't have. Since it took me so long to update, I figured you guys would appreciate a longer chapter, eh? :)

And, finally:

**In loving memory of Fudge, the "best puppy dog EVVVEEERRR!" **You are loved and missed. **I hope you are having fun in heaven, sweetie. :')**

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT<strong>

It's funny – well, 'funny' as in 'really freaking weird' – how Ms. Pillsbury's infamous pamphlets are the next thing I think about.

Seriously, right after I confirm to myself that, yes, I do like Rachel as more than a friend, my brain jumps straight to those wacky pamphlets.

Mine would probably say something like: "So, You Want to Bump and Grind Your BFF?"

Or: "What to Do When You're Royally Fucked."

Oh! Or, my personal favorite: "I Come from a Conservative Christian Family That Kicked Me out of the House after Finding My Diary Entries Professing My Profoundly Sapphic Ways, So Now I'm Living with One of My Best Friends, and I Just Realized that I Like Her as Much More than a Friend, but This Can Never Work because She is Super Hetero for Her Aloof Boyfriend: What Now?"

But in all seriousness, those last two words sum this up perfectly.

_What now?_

Where do I go from here?

I step out from the stall as the five minute warning bell shrieks through the air, sounding in my sorry state like some sort of obnoxious, exotic bird flying in and screeching right in my ear.

There are only two other girls in here with me, but at the sound of the bell, they turn from the sinks and head for the doors. One of them, the shorter one with a mass of bright red curls, gives me a shy smile and a wave, not even allowing me enough time to return the gesture before she and her friend have exited the bathroom.

I walk up to the sink they vacated and check out my reflection. Cute headband – a braided brown faux-leather – worn in my silky blonde hair. Not much make-up because my genetics trump cosmetics. Subtle red lipstick on a pouty mouth. My eyes look full-on green and less hazel right now, burning from within from all my warring emotions.

I mean, look at me! I'm a total catch; I'm somehow both 'lovely' and 'hot' at the same time, with a great body and awesome clothes, and I'm charming enough that I could flirt my way out of a terrorist interrogation.

But none of that matters. Because I have two X-chromosomes, and Rachel desires a Y. Because I am a girl. Because _Finn _is the one Rachel wants, and other than first names that rhyme together, I bear absolutely no resemblance to that boy in any way you spin it.

I slam my fists down on the cold ceramic sink, yanking my gaze away from my accusing eyes. _Why now?_ That's the question. No longer 'what now,' but '_why_ now.'

Why do I have to realize my feelings for Rachel _now_, on top of everything else?

… But that's not true.

Because, if I'm being honest with myself, then maybe these feelings have been around for much longer than a mere ten minutes ago.

Maybe I became entranced by Rachel when I first saw her freshman year.

Maybe I developed a thing for her as sophomores.

Maybe that 'thing' veered dangerously toward 'crush' territory last year.

And maybe now, that 'crush' has spiraled into full-blown 'oh God, I really, _really_ like her.'

Heaving a sigh, I gather my things and hurry to English. I don't need to be late on top of everything else right now. Though I do have half a mind to skip class altogether to avoid having to deal with Rachel, but that would be running away from my problems like I always do, and I'm going to try to be braver from now on.

I enter the classroom and slide into my usual seat between Rachel and Santana just as the late bell rings.

Santana is busy chatting with Brittany about something, so I can't even strike up a conversation with her as a means to avoid talking to Rachel. Instead, I set my notebook on my desk and use my pen to start doodling random swirly symbols all over the inside cover.

From the corner of my eye, I see Rachel lean in toward me. I can _feel_ her intense eyes boring into my profile.

She clears her throat. "Hey. Uhm, I have good news."

Funny how she sounds more tentative than optimistic when referring to such 'good news.'

I merely nod and continue staring at my notebook as if all the secrets to the universe are written upon it.

So absorbed in pretending to be absorbed am I, that when fingertips graze my bare upper arm, I shoot upward so abruptly that my feet jump right off the floor; my knees crash against the bottom of my desktop.

_Owwwwww!_Grimacing, I start rubbing away the pain from my knees while turning halfway toward a confused-looking Rachel to flash her my most agitated and impatient expression.

"_What?"_I demand.

It's crazy how much damage just one word can do, how much impact the tone has with the meaning: my question comes out as the sharpest of whispers; like a knife, I can _see_it slicing into her, that single blade of an utterance slashing a wounded look all over her face.

_Great._ Now I feel guilty _and_ my knees are throbbing _and_ my left arm still feels tender and burning from where she touched me. _I'll take "Symptoms of Falling Apart" for 500, Alex._

I take a deep, audible breath. "Sorry," I say in as neutral a tone as possible, wiping my expression clean. "I was just hurt by my knees banging the desk, so I snapped at you. What's your good news?" I try for a harmless smile, but it feels like my tightened lips are trying to swim up wet cement.

My heart starts racing as I make my eyes stay locked on Rachel's.

In the bathroom, I thought my reflection was a sight to behold, but it's nothing compared to her.

Those long lashes and those gentle eyes and those rosy cheeks and that damn _smile_, tugging upward so bashfully and so beautifully right now that it makes something deep inside my stomach physically, painfully, _ache_.

And, as bizarre as this is, there's a bubble of hysterical emotion swelling in my chest, and I find myself caught between the urge to burst into loud tears or insane laughter. I manage to fight the feeling away, but a pressure still lingers behind in my chest, shoving backwards at my heart when all it wants to do is keep pounding faster and faster forward.

"Finn and I worked things out," she says.

_Yeah, hon. I noticed. I fucking _noticed,_ okay?_

Hysteria returns as crazed laughter leaves my lips; I clap a hand to my mouth, cheeks burning red.

"What's so funny?" she demands, trying to sound indignant. But her brow furrows in such a vulnerable way that all her superiority is lost.

I pull my hand away and roll my shoulders back. I hope she doesn't notice my blush. "Nothing."

"You're not laughing at me, are you?"

"Look, Rach… It's just…" And though I start out with a calm voice, it progressively drops quieter and fiercer, sizzling with a bitterness and edge of sarcasm that proves impossible to control. "You didn't have to tell me that you and Finn reconciled your perfect, dreamy, high school relationship. It's obvious and predictable. I am sooo _very_ happy for you both. I mean, it's not like this is the first time you guys have broken up and gotten back together this year, right?"

Rachel's lips separate. She's speechless for a moment, eyes blinking with confusion as mouth flounders. "I thought you'd be happy for me," she finally says, words dripping with so much betrayal and accusation that I immediately hate myself for lashing out. "But I guess I was wrong."

She whips away from me, concentrating on flipping through her English textbook with even more pointed attention than I had earlier.

It's like a cold fist is gripping my heart, relentless fingers _squeezing_ until it pops in my chest. I can't have Rachel mad at me. I can't have her hate me or resent me or, or, or any of those horrible things.

Panic trickles like ice melting through my veins; I lean over and set my hand on top of hers, not releasing my clench even after she huffs and finally looks at me.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, eyes shining with remorse. "I didn't mean it, okay? I mean, I _meant_ it, but not that bitterly. I just… I want you to be happy, Rachel. That's all I want."

Her entire demeanor softens, closed mouth tugging up shyly but warmly. Her big, amber-brown eyes flutter with the longest of lashes. And I think I could die from the beauty of it, just melt away into a puddle of goo and seep through the floorboards.

"Thank you, Quinn," she whispers back, turning her hand over until her palm meets mine and nudging our fingers together. The warmth from her hand shoots all the way up my arm. "All _I _want is _your_ happiness. Isn't that what best friends are for?"

It's like a steel-toed boot kicking right into my heart. "Yeah," I say, "Best friends."

And for the first time, rather than rejoice over sharing that title with her, I feel something heavy settle into the pit of my stomach.

For the first time, 'best friends' just doesn't feel like enough.

But for now, with our hands interlocked and our eyes sharing smiles, it has to be.

* * *

><p>I sit at my usual table for lunch, beside Santana and diagonal from Brittany. Puck shows up about five minutes later than we do, swinging himself into the seat across from mine and shooting off a wink.<p>

"Hey, my sexy ladies," he says. "How was everybody's weekend?"

I think back to Friday after school, when I came out to Britt and San. Then, Friday night, when Rachel and I had that serious discussion followed by a pillow fight. Saturday and Sunday, where I adjusted to life with the Berries after being kicked out last Wednesday. Wow, it's almost my week anniversary for being disowned by my parents. How should I celebrate the landmark occasion? Balloons and a cake just don't strike me as very appropriate.

"Not very eventful," Brittany says. "Well, Friday was _super _eventful. But the rest of the weekend? Kind of 'blah.'"

"Total 'blah,'" Santana agrees.

Puck lifts an eyebrow. "What happened on Friday?"

"I told them," I said, "about – _you know_. All of it."

"Really?" Puck releases a sigh. "Thank God! I was getting tired of tiptoeing around that secret."

"Yes, Puck," I give him a teasing little smirk, "We wouldn't want to have to inconvenience _you_ when it comes to one of the most major aspects of _my_ life."

Puck sticks his tongue out at me.

"Hey now," Brittany says, shooting a fry at him from her tray. "You can't tease Quinn like that anymore. Now it's considered a hate crime." She snickers at her own joke, and soon we're all laughing along with her, even Puck.

"Hey guys," a familiar, peppy voice says above my shoulder. "What's so funny?"

I twist around in my chair and, sure enough, there stands Rachel, a wide and inquisitive smile stretched high up her face.

"Hey!" I can feel my own face brightening through every pore, eyes lighting up when they meet hers. "Puck was being a doofus, and we were having a go at his expense. What else is new?"

"Hey!" Puck says, in a much different tone than my greeting to Rachel.

Rachel giggles. "That sounds about right. Puck needs us girls to keep his ego in check."

Puck gives an offended huff. "If I keep hanging around _you girls,_ I won't have any ego left at all."

"That's the plan," Santana says, and from my peripheral vision, I catch her playful smirk.

"So, what brings you to our neck of the woods?" I ask Rachel. I'm perfectly content on looking at her, despite the strain in my lower back from turning at such an odd angle. "You don't usually grace us with your presence at lunchtime."

"And that's exactly why I'm over here," she says, giving me a special little smile.

My heart stutters; she has _got_ to stop doing that to me, especially when I'm in public. One of these days I'm going to pass out or something from the effect of those damn smiles.

Rachel turns her attention to the other three at my table. "I've come to invite you all to join me and some of rest of the Glee Club at our usual table. It's strange how we haven't all been sitting together all this time, and it's something that I want to remedy."

"It's not strange, really," Santana says. "We don't get along with, like, half of your group. And up until very recently, I particularly didn't get along with _you_." Her tone isn't mean, just her typical matter-of-fact, tellin'-it-like-it-is manner.

I would shoot Santana a reprimanding glare, but the truth is, she's right: Rachel's group consists of Finn, Sam, Kurt, and Blaine (Mercedes, Tina, Artie, and Mike all have the other lunch block).

I'm currently pissed at Finn for interrupting Rachel and me this morning (among other things); I've barely spoken to Sam since our break-up; and though Blaine is nice enough, it's no secret that his boyfriend –Kurt – and I aren't exactly jumping at the chance to exchange friendship bracelets.

Rachel notices the hesitation on everyone's faces – especially on mine. Her brow creases. "Aw, come on, guys! It will be fun! We're like a family, so just think of it as bonding time, okay?" To the untrained eye, she overflows with optimism, but I know her well enough to detect the desperation swirling beneath her widened eyes and enthusiastic grin.

This girl will be the death of me. Sighing, I turn back around, grab my lunch tray and purse, and stand up.

"Come on," I say to San, Britt, and Puck, quirking my head toward Rachel's table. "I'm going to need all the reinforcements I can get."

Rachel releases a squealing noise that is only half-human. I can't fight back the smile tugging at my lips; when I look over at her genuinely excited expression, I know I've made the right choice.

Puck heaves a loud, exasperated sigh. "Fine," he grumps, grabbing his brown paper lunch bag. "It's about time I start hanging with more dudes, anyway."

"I assure you you've made the right choice, Noah!" Rachel says, with so much pride for him that he looks like he's already regretting having made 'the right choice.'

"You two coming?" I ask, eyes swiveling from San to Britt and back again.

"And risk losing my appetite or puking it back up?" Santana scoffs. "No, thanks; I actually want to _enjoy_ my PB&J."

Brittany sips from her soda innocently, avoiding eye-contact with anyone.

"Suit yourselves," I shrug, pivoting on my heel. "Lead the way, Rach."

She does just that, strutting forward in her typical shoulders-back, head-held-high demeanor. Puck and I exchange a glance before following after her. It's a glance of quirked brow and pursing lips. _What are we getting ourselves into?_

About twenty feet later and we've reached Rachel's usual lunch table. Kurt, Blaine, Finn, and Sam look up at us, and the range of expressions their faces show is almost comical. In respective order, you have: distaste, friendliness, confusion (wow, big surprise there), and stony discomfort.

I focus on Blaine, the only smiling one of the bunch, as Rachel speaks. "Look who I've brought back with me, guys." Her tone is so breezy, so nonchalant, that I'm immediately tipped off to a horrifying fact: She didn't consult her group before asking mine to join.

She didn't consult them, because she knew that most of them would _object_. My fingers tighten around my lunch tray; the small smile I'd been giving Blaine freezes on my face.

I jerk my eyes to Sam and Kurt, and sure enough, it screams all over their tensing shoulders and scowling mouths: They don't want Puck and me here. Oops, sorry, not Puck – they just don't want _me_ here.

"Um, yeah, sure," Finn tries for his signature half-smile. "The more the merrier."

Finn and Kurt sit side-by-side on one side, with Sam and Blaine across from them on the other. Puck takes the empty chair on Sam's right; Rachel takes the one beside Finn, where her purse and pink lunch box are already placed.

I start walking around to sit beside Puck, but Rachel rests a hand on my upper arm. "Where do you think you're going?" she mock-scolds, moving her hand so she can pat it against the chair next to her. "Sit by me!"

My eyes widen; for a tense second, I'm unable to move, staring like an idiot down at the chair. I don't think Rachel realizes that, by me sitting there, I will be almost directly across from Sam. That's why I wanted to be next to Puck – he would act as a barrier between me and my ex-boyfriend.

"Yo, dude," Puck says to Finn, reaching across the table and slapping him a manly high-five. His voice yanks me out of my panic.

I drop into the seat beside Rachel, put my purse by my feet, and of course right when I set down my lunch tray and look up, my eyes land right on Sam's narrowed ones. He whips his stare down at his sandwich, mouth hardening at the edges.

_This is so enjoyable, _I think bitterly, scratching at the back of my blushing neck. _It's like a regular ol' picnic in the park._

But then Rachel nudges her elbow lightly into my ribs and graces me with a soft, understanding smile when I turn to her, and I think that maybe the awkwardness is worth it.

Heavy silence descends for a good minute. Then, Kurt says: "So, Quinn. Dating anyone new lately?"

Okay, make that a _strong_ maybe.

I shoot daggers at the well-coiffed boy.

"What?" he asks, oh-so-innocently. He even plants a hand over his heart. "I'm just wondering."

Sam's ears flash dark pink; he chews on the corner of his lower lip and stares up at me from beneath his fringe of blonde lashes. Now I get it. Kurt wasn't trying to make me uncomfortable; he's asking me this for _Sam's_ benefit, to give my ex-boyfriend a clue as to if I've moved on from him by now.

"Nope," I say. "I don't have a boyfriend."

"You sure?" Kurt asks, cocking his head.

His naïve charade is so annoying that I feel Feisty Quinn coming out to play.

"Actually," I say, throwing in a guilty shrug. "There is someone."

Rachel's brow shoots up, her mouth digging into a confused frown; Puck's eyes bulge, like _What the hell are you doing?_; Kurt leans toward me, ears swiveling like satellites honing in on fresh gossip.

"His name's Bubba," I say. "He's this trucker I met at a rest stop. He's so wild and mysterious." I sigh dreamily before turning solemn. "But please keep it on the downlow; I don't think my parents would approve of me dating someone who's forty years older than me."

Rachel, Puck, and Blaine burst into laughter. Even Sam is fighting back an amused smile; for just a moment, our eyes lock as we both release a chuckle – the familiarity of his friendship washes over me in a warm wave. I want to bask in it, to roll around in the sound of his happiness, but he whips his gaze back down to his lunch, seeming to remember that he's supposed to hate me.

"Whatever," Kurt grumbles, flopping back in his chair.

"Why are you guys laughing?" Finn asks with great indignity. He shakes his head, stopping short of wagging a finger in my face. "Quinn, your boyfriend could go to jail for dating you! You're not eighteen yet!"

And that does it: Finn's astounding gullibility sends me and Puck into stitches; even Kurt cracks a smile.

"She was just joking, sweetie," Rachel whispers, patting Finn on the shoulder. She plants a kiss onto his reddened face, and just like that, my laughter chokes in my throat.

Finn slings his long arm around Rachel's shoulder, practically swallowing her whole. I stab a fork at my grapes, pretending they're his eyes.

From laughter to assaulting fruit, in less than a minute – maybe I should stick to my old lunch table.

* * *

><p>When Rachel and I arrive at her house Tuesday after school, I ask to see her backyard.<p>

It's weird, almost a week since I've been living here, and I still haven't checked it out yet. Knowing her decorator-savvy dads, I'm sure it'll be as much of a sight to behold as the inside of her house.

"Wow," I say, standing on the wooden patio with my hands on my hips. "You have a beautiful garden."

And she does: neatly trimmed, bright green grass is bordered in by stone rectangles housing flowerbeds of reds, yellows, oranges, blues, and purples. I'm no botanist, so I don't know the names of most of the flowers, but I spot some cheery yellow sunflowers and even some red roses among the mix.

In the middle of her moderately-sized backyard is a large working fountain of a baby angel spouting a stream of water from its mouth, trickling into the basin at its feet. Her backyard looks like a lot of energy and care goes into keeping it so lush. My own backyard has a more subdued gardening area, but I do have a really nice, big swimming pool that Rachel doesn't.

"Thanks," Rachel says. "My dads love to garden. Sometimes I help them, but I don't really like to get dirt beneath my nails."

I turn toward her and smack a hand lightly to her arm. "You're such a girl!" I laugh.

"So what if I am?" she laughs back, rolling her eyes. "Maybe I'm _proud _to be a girl, you sexist pig."

I try to act offended, but I can't help but giggle. "You're a dork. But you're right; being a girl is the best."

Rachel sits down on one of the white wicker chairs that match the lone round table on her patio. "It definitely is," she agrees.

I flop down in the chair beside her and, for a few minutes, we sit in a comfortable silence. The afternoon breeze caresses my face like cool fingertips. Sunshine highlights the natural beauty of Mother Nature, brightening the flowers and bathing the grass with golden light.

This is one of the things I love most about my and Rachel's friendship; we don't have to constantly entertain each other. We're content just _being _together, even if it is in silence. We can say more in a smile or a hug than a lot of friends can say in entire conversations.

Still, there is a reason why I asked to see her backyard today besides curiosity; I have to scout out the area to see if it's big enough to hold Buttercup. And it totally is: I know Buttercup would love to romp around in the gross, to try and catch some of the butterflies floating by. She's a well-behaved enough dog to know not to pee in the flowerbeds or dig up the grass.

I miss her so much – it's like this big, constant, physical entity, twirling around in my stomach and pressing down on my chest. Unable to take it even a second longer, I know now is the time to bring up my plan to Rachel.

"Rach?"

"Mmmhmm?"

I look over at her; a soft smile springs at my lips.

She's leaning back in the chair, head titled; rays of sunlight make her face appear to glow from within. Her arms are folded over her chest, and her eyes are closed so contentedly, with her long lashes fanning out. I could sit here and look at her all afternoon. She's even more captivating than the roses… Oh God, I'm sorry, that was _really_ lame, even if it is true. I'm too young to be going all Shakespearian analogist here.

Licking my lips, I say, "Um, I kind of have a favor to ask. Well, not a favor really, but a request."

Her eyelids flutter open; the way the sun frames her makes her amber-brown irises appear brighter, almost golden, like two sparkling gemstones. But then she shifts around so she can look at me without squinting, and her face is shadowed. "What is it?"

"I've been thinking about Buttercup a lot lately," I say. "I just… I really miss her, Rachel. And I was wondering if maybe it would be okay if she could come and stay with us here?" I bite down on my lip.

Almost every part of Rachel responds in enthusiasm: her eyebrows jump, her hands clap together, and she does a little bounce in her seat. "Oh my God, Quinn! I'm so sorry! I can't believe I didn't suggest that to you sooner. _Of course_ Buttercup can stay here with us. I mean, we'd have to ask my dads first, but it's not like they're going to say no."

I already feel like some weight has been lifted from my chest. I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear and cock my head. "Really? How can you be so sure they'll say yes?"

Rachel lifts her eyebrows, giving me this look like, 'Are you crazy?' "Come on, Quinn. As if anyone could say no to _you_." The way she says it makes a blush spread all the way from my neck to my forehead. I duck my head, hiding an epic grin.

She scoffs. "Stop it! Now you're doing it on purpose!"

A loud laugh bursts from me as I drag my eyes back to her now half-irritated and half-amused expression. "Doing _what _on purpose?"

"Being so lovely," she says.

"Stop it," I say, leaning over and swatting her knee. "You're making me blush."

She smiles at me in this adoring way. It takes me back to when we first started being friends, and she was so impressed with the idea of being friends with Cool, Popular, HBIC Quinn Fabray. She knows I'm not that person anymore, so can it be that she's really this enthralled with being friends with just me? With plain old Quinn Fabray? The idea of that alone sends a thrill racing through my veins.

"Anyway," she says, settling back in her chair. "How are we going to get Buttercup? Won't that be kind of like stealing?"

"Considering she was mine to begin with, I think it falls under the category of 'reclaiming what is rightfully yours.'"

"Very true. But how are we going to get her back?"

A wicked grin steals up my face. "Don't you worry about the plotting and the scheming. That's what we have Santana for."

But then an even _more _wicked grin appears on Rachel's face as she says, "Don't count me out just yet, Fabray. I've been known to have quite a few tricks up my sleeve."

It's official: with combined masterminds Santana _and _Rachel, there's no way we're going to fail. Not if I can help it, anyway.

'Epic Mission Reunite Buttercup with Quinn while also Sticking It to Quinn's Parents' can officially begin…

Yeah, I know. The title still needs some work.

* * *

><p>When Rachel's parents got home about an hour later, we wasted no time in sitting them down on the living room couch. I had this whole pitch in my head with all the pros of having Buttercup around, and about how responsible I'll be, and about how I'll make sure to be the one who will feed her and take her on walks and be on chronic pooper-scooper duty.<p>

But it turned out I didn't need to worry; as soon as the question "Can I bring my dog here to stay with me?" came out of my mouth, Hiram and Leroy exchanged a quick glance before turning to me and nodding with wide smiles on their faces.

I may or may not have released an embarrassingly unladylike squeal of excitement and launched myself on top of them in a double tackle-hug. And Rachel may have laughed and called me a goober but didn't let that stop her from joining the hug fest.

But now it's Wednesday after school, just before Glee Club, and I'm not feeling all that huggable.

I've been in a slump all day; unable to truly smile or laugh, more reserved than usual. When I got called on during history class to answer a question, I stuttered and made a fool of myself even though I knew the right answer. My friends have been sharing concerned looks on my behalf; they've tried talking to me about it, but I tell them I'm fine and then go back to being quiet.

But they know I'm not fine. And they know _why _I'm not fine.

Today is my one-week anniversary of my parents discovering I'm gay and kicking me out of my house because of it.

I keep thinking back to last Wednesday, like viewing a gruesome highlight reel in my brain that I can't turn off.

The way my blood froze to ice when I caught my dad going through my diaries.

The fury, the disgust, and – worst of all – the disappointment, shining in his eyes and cutting me apart.

My mom's inability to do _anything, _despite her having known all along.

That feeling of complete loneliness, of being abandoned by the two people I thought would always be there for me.

Slamming my front door and the 'Home, Sweet Home' sign shattering to the floor.

And, of course, leaving behind Buttercup, leaving behind my _home, _as I drove off in the pouring rain.

I enter the choir room with Rachel at my side. Her hand is resting on my right shoulder blade, but even her touch doesn't feel as comforting as it usually would.

Santana, Brittany, and Puck wave at me from the top riser. Head ducked low, I shuffle up the rows to join them. I sink into the empty chair beside Puck and am more than a little surprised when my peripheral vision catches someone taking the next chair beside me.

It's Rachel, smoothing out her red plaid pleated miniskirt and crossing her legs at the ankle. She gives me a dazzling smile when she notices my furrowed brow. "I thought I'd sit with you today," she explains.

The weird thing is, Rachel alternates between sitting at the front with Finn and at the top with me; since she sat with me on Monday, today is Finn's turn. Not that I'm complaining, of course. I realize she's doing this because she knows how upset I've been today and she wants to lend me any support she can.

"Yeah, that's fine," I say with a tiny smile. It's just a whisper of one, really. Rachel faces forward but lets her hand hang between our chairs, palm-up.

This time my smile is more genuine, more alive, as I slide my hand inside of hers, my fingers curling around and holding tight. She wraps her fingers around mine, so warm and secure.

For the first time since last night, I feel safe. And when she gives my hand a quick squeeze, for the first time all day, memories of last week vanish from my mind.

Puck nudges my side, bringing my attention to him. He peers down at me from his big brown eyes, overflowing with tenderness and concern. "Hey, Fabray," he whispers, setting a large hand atop my shoulder. "How you holdin' up?"

He's one-of-a-kind, that Noah Puckerman. He wears a beat-up black leather jacket over a white shirt with ripped jeans. His Mohawk is as "badass" as ever. And yet here he sits, talking to me so gently and reaching out a consoling hand.

I love him. Like the big brother I never had, I love this guy. I know that now, in this instant, with the scent of his cologne and a random mustard-esque stain on the collar of his shirt. I don't know what I'd do without him.

So, I respond by leaning up and planting a kiss to his cheek. His eyebrows shoot skyward, and I think that _maybe_ he's even blushing a little. "What was that for?" His hand slips off my shoulder, but the kindness of his gesture will linger long after.

"Don't ever change, Noah," I say.

"Oh no," he says with a twinkle in his eye, "Oh no, no, no." He shakes his head back and forth with each 'no.' "Berry already calls me 'Noah.' No _way _are you going to turn on me, too, Quinn!"

I laugh and roll my eyes. "Trust me," I say. "It was a one-time thing, _Puck_." It doesn't matter what I call him; I'll still love him just the same.

Puck smirks in triumph… And then, in a flash, he rumples my hair with an obnoxious fist.

"Hey!"

Snickering, he pulls away from me at about the same time I slap his arm. Hard. He grimaces.

Meanwhile, Rachel laughs her loud, throaty laugh. "Now you know why I was so annoyed when he did it to me!" she teases.

"Yeah," Puck says. "I think I'll stick to noogie-ing Rach. At least _she _doesn't get all violent about it."

"Hey, you mess with the bull, you get the horns." I hold up only my pinkie and forefinger and wave them in Puck's face. He swats my hand away and groans.

"God, no need to flaunt your _horniness _at me." Puck chuckles at his own joke. Rachel and I swap disapproving stares and cross our arms over our chests.

Good thing Mr. Schuester chooses that moment to enter the room. "Hey, guys!" He launches into some pleasantries before calling up Mercedes to sing her assignment for the week.

When she gets up, I notice that she was sitting right next to Sam. I find that kind of weird, since they haven't ever really interacted before, let alone taken seats together. But then she starts singing, belting out these powerful high notes, and it's beautiful enough to make me forget all about who she was sitting with or why it would even matter.

I close my eyes and listen to the music, feel it float through my body, soar through my ears. Girl's got talent, let me tell you.

She pierces through that last high note, and I think I clap loudest of all. Mr. Schuester yammers on and on for a while, but it's all so glib that I end up tuning him out. I keep obsessing over last week, fragments of that horrendous day clogging my mind's eye.

But then I remember what happened _before_ I got home after school last Wednesday; Rachel taught me how to play "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" on the piano, and we joked around and cracked up afterward. That, combined with the reminder that I would have Buttercup back sometime soon, manages to bring a smile onto my face. Little, but a smile nonetheless. Like a crack of light shining through the darkness.

Finally, Mr. Schue dismisses us. Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I turn to Brittany and Santana.

Their pinkies are already linked, and when I face them, they offer me sweet, sympathetic smiles.

"I have great news," I say. Without waiting for them to guess, I lower my voice and tell them. "Rachel and her dads said Buttercup can stay with me at their house!"

"Whoa, really? That's awesome!" Puck cheers, pumping his fist. Tina turns over her shoulder from walking out the door and raises an eyebrow at his enthusiasm before exiting with Mike.

"_Shhh_," I scold, but I'm totally grinning. "Shout it to the entire school, why don't you?"

"Quinn," Rachel says. "I'm going to go say goodbye to Finn, and then I'll meet you back up here."

"Yeah, sure," I toss her a quick smile before looking back at Britt, San, and Puck.

"This is _so_ awesome!" Brittany giggles. "We're going to get to be secret warrior ninjas!"

Santana uses their joined pinkies to pull Britt into her side. She kisses the side of her girlfriend's head while looking at me out of amused eyes. "That's one way to put it."

"Wait, so you're really gonna break into your old house to get your dog back?" Puck clarifies, thankfully at a much softer volume. There are still quite a few people who haven't left yet, and considering how gossipy our club is, I wouldn't want someone to overhear us.

When I give Puck my nod of confirmation, his eyes pop wide. "Hey! Why haven't I heard about this? There's no way you lame-O's will be able to pull this off without the badass skills of Puckeroni."

"Yeah, because anyone who refers to themselves in the third person – especially with nicknames like _Puckeroni_ – is incredibly badass," Santana snorts. Britt giggles and nods pityingly at Puck.

Puck huffs with ample exaggeration. "Come on," he says to me. "You know I'm right. There's no way you can do this without me."

Not to be rude, but I know we could do this without him. Hell, I could do this without _any _of them, because it really isn't going to be that difficult to break into my old house when I, you know, _have a key_.

But that's not the point. The point is that, by doing this together, my friends are showing they have my back. And that's all Puck is doing right now, trying to prove his loyalty, trying to show how much he cares.

So that's why I say with a grateful smile, "You're right, Puck. We need your help."

Thankfully, Santana and Brittany don't make any other snide comments. Maybe that's because Rachel chooses that moment to reappear beside me.

"All right!" She claps her hands together. "What did I miss?"

"Puck's joining our forces," I say. The proud grin he wears at this warms my heart and makes a smile of my own jump up my mouth.

"Great!" Rachel says. "The more the merrier. How about we convene at my house after Glee rehearsal on Friday?"

Santana and Puck nod their assent while Brittany flashes a thumbs-up. I link arms with Rachel and smile down at her as she smiles up at me; for just a moment, it's like we're the only two people in the room.

"Sounds perfect," I say.

And right now, with my friends around me, and my arm linked with Rachel's, and a smile on my face, I think maybe it could be.

* * *

><p>Later that night, after I've showered and changed into a comfy T-shirt and pajama pants, a knock comes at my bedroom door.<p>

"Come in!"

The door pops open and Rachel slides inside; she wears a pair of hot-pink-and-orange pajamas with her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. "Hey," she says, holding up a glass of water. "Thought you might be thirsty."

I smile. "'Thirsty' as in the Berry Family Code for 'sad,' you mean."

"Well, yeah," she says with a rueful little smile. "I know today's been hard on you."

I flop down on the end of my bed and pat the spot beside me. "Come sit."

She obliges, the bedsprings croaking gently to compensate her added weight. She's close enough that the fuzzy thigh of her fleece pajama pants merges with the striped linen of mine. I take the water from her and sip at the cold liquid; ice cubes clink against the glass, tapping out a jaunty rhythm.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

She snuggles into my side and rests her head on my shoulder; my heart pounds faster against my chest.

"They're idiots, you know," she says.

"Who are?"

"Your parents."

Despite myself, despite _everything,_ a smile steals up my face. "And why's that?"

"Because they pushed you away, gave you up. You're…" Her voice turns soft, this strange blend of shyness and firmness. "You're incredible. I can't imagine ever walking away from you, or what I would do if you walked away from me."

I slide my arm around her waist, pull her in close. My eyes flutter shut as I breathe in this moment, soaking in the warmth of her words and the radiance of her body heat. Her scent, lavender-vanilla, fills my senses in the most beautiful and relaxing way.

"You don't have to worry about that," I say, "Because one thing I know for sure is that there's no way I could ever walk away from you." The weight of this statement is far heavier than Rachel could ever imagine; she has no idea just how tethered I feel to her, like she is my rock and my anchor and my sunshine in this bleak, godforsaken world.

"Same here," she says.

I sip from my drink, but I don't need it to alleviate my sadness. Just being around Rachel, holding her to my side, fills me up more than a glass of fresh water ever could.

Right when I'm beginning to slip into a state of complete tranquility, my cell phones blares from its spot on my nightstand. I try not to grumble _too_ much as I have to pull away from Rachel, thrust the glass of water into her hands, and scramble across the bed to pluck up my phone.

'UNKNOWN CALLER' stares up at me from the screen, making my eyebrows crease at the middle.

"Who is it?" Rachel asks, and I think maybe she sounds just a _little _annoyed with the interruption.

"It's a blocked number," I say, curiosity – as always – getting the better of me; my forefinger wastes no more time in hitting the 'Answer' option.

"Hello?" I bring the phone up to my ear. "Who is this?"

Silence greets me; then, a quiet sound like a sniffle.

I roll my eyes. "Oh no; not _you_ again. Are you the stupid unknown caller from Friday night?"

"Let me talk to them!" Rachel yells. I swivel toward her and smirk in amusement at the crazily determined look on her face. I hold a finger up to my lips and shake my head as I wait for the person on the other end of the line to respond.

"Hello?" I repeat. "If you don't reply in ten seconds, I'm hanging up on you."

There's a whimpering noise, like a wounded animal. Okay, now this is just getting freaky. I don't need any sniveling mid-life crises victims hitting me up at ten o'clock at night just to hear the sound of another human's voice or whatever.

Though it hasn't even been five seconds since my warning, I decide that I've endured this annoyance for long enough. "Don't call back here," I say before ending the call and tossing my phone aside.

"Hey," Rachel pouts, this adorable jut of her bottom lip and lowering of her brow. "I wanted to talk to them."

"Next time," I promise, even though I'm hoping there won't actually _be_ a next time.

Lord knows that two times is more than enough to deal with aggravating anonymous callers.

Rachel smiles, appeased, and hops to her feet. "Let's go have a bowl of vegan ice cream before bed."

"I'll never pass up an opportunity to excite my sweet tooth."

"You don't have a sweet tooth; you have sweet _teeth_," Rachel teases, leading the way into the hallway.

I chuckle in agreement and follow after her, thinking that every day should end with a bowl of ice cream.

* * *

><p>Two days later, it's now the Friday of the last week of March.<p>

Being so, all seniors receive a list with every one of their fellow seniors' names on it during first period. Then, we can circle up to five males and five females – who we want on the ballet for prom king and prom queen. The top three girls and boys with the most votes will be the official nominations.

At the end of English, about five minutes before the bell, our teacher passes out the ballots.

The students are listed alphabetically by last name; it doesn't take me long to circle 'Quinn Fabray' and 'Santana Lopez' in the girls' column and 'Sam Evans' and 'Artie Abrams' in the boys'. I even circle 'Noah Puckerman,' just for kicks. I know Puck would hate to actually get nominated for something as "lame-ass" as prom king, but I can't resist voting for him anyway.

Other than those top choices, I'm stuck.

I tap Santana on the shoulder. "Hey," I whisper when she looks over at me with a raised brow, "Does Brittany want to run with us?"

Santana shakes her head. "She's going to be our campaign manager, remember?"

"Oh, yeah."

I turn to Rachel; she's staring down at her paper with concentration etched all over her face, her tongue poking out the front of her mouth and snaking back and forth over just the middle in these little strokes.

I imagine that tongue in my mouth, caressing my own and flicking the back of my teeth and…and… Why was I about to get her attention again? I swallow hard, mind blank, and then – _Oh, right, the ballot_.

"Rach?" I say.

Expectant eyes jump to mine; her mouth opens into a small but sunny grin. "Yeah?"

"Um, did you want to, uh, run for prom queen, too? Like, should I, like, circle your name?" I will away a blush that wants to form over my incompetent stuttering.

Rachel's expression tenders into shyness. "Oh, wow! That would be such an honor! But I don't think I'm cut out for prom queen. There's no way anyone but you would nominate me, so don't even waste your pen's ink, okay?"

"You know what?" I circle 'Rachel Berry' and draw a little star above it. She notices this and laughs in surprised delight. "I _am _going to nominate you." We exchange bright, conspiring smiles.

As our eyes remain locked together for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and as our smiles soften at the edges, I find myself wondering if, maybe, just maybe, we're having a…_moment_.

"Don't forget to nominate Finn," she says abruptly, the words leaping from her mouth so fast that even _she_ appears a little startled by them.

My smile drops off; I shift back in my seat, facing forward. "Right," I grumble. "Finn."

The tip of my gel pen digs hard around the paper as I circle 'Finn Hudson.' Hard enough to slash a small rip above it; hard enough to make the ink bleed glittery pink blood beneath it.

The memory of Finn taking Rachel away from me Monday morning – of his puffy vest, and his sneaker dragging across the floor, and his puppy-dog eyes – fills my mind, and I have the briefest but strongest urge to stab 'Finn Hudson' himself with my pen.

Right in the forehead.

Maybe then he'll learn that interrupting is impolite.

The bell screeches through the air, yanking me from my thoughts and catapulting my peers into a mad rush to leave the classroom. Quickly, I gather my things and sling my purse over my arm. I wait for Rachel to finish grabbing her books before walking with her.

Unfortunately, halfway to the door, a hand intercepts me; hard fingers clamp onto my upper arm, digging in and pulling me to an abrupt stop.

_The hell? _I swing narrowed eyes upward to cut into Rick's arrogant face. He hasn't tried to talk to me or hit on me in a week, and it seems that he's making up for lost time by being extra-obnoxious and clingy.

I rip my arm away from his hand and immediately massage fervent fingertips to scrub away his invisible germs and to try to prevent a bruise from forming at his iron-clad grip.

Rachel halts beside him, her arms crossing over her chest as she glares up at Rick.

"What do you want?" I demand, wishing he would just evaporate or something. _Poof_, and then gone like an annoying cloud of toxic smoke.

"I nominated you for prom queen," he says, heavy stare ignoring Rachel and honing in just on me. But the weird thing is his tone: it's not laced with the usual bravado and smugness; it's friendly, maybe even…well…_nice_. Not the tone that would usually follow after yanking someone's arm, but then again, Rick's never been one to pair the right social cues together.

"And?" I ask, raising one eyebrow.

"_And_," he says, with a smile that's almost human, "I was seeing if you voted for me, too? Then we could run together."

Oh God. What the hell… Why do I feel almost…guilty? It's just a smidge, the teeniest amount available, but it's there nonetheless.

There's no way in this lifetime or the next that I would ever nominate him, let alone want to _run _with him; however, he's so oblivious that I sort of feel bad for him. Like with Finn – I'm caught between a label of 'just plain douchebag' or 'just too stupid and clueless to know decent manners.'

It's annoying when assholes randomly show a shred of humanity; it makes my dislike more confusing, the world less conveniently black-and-white in regard to personalities.

I've paused for too long after Rick's question. My silence is his answer.

"Oh," he says, shoulders stiffening out an aggravated shrug. "Okay then. Whatever." He turns to go, but not before adding with a sneer, "I bet you won't even make it onto the ballot, and I will, and then you're going to be super jealous of me."

And Jackass Rick the Dick returns, ladies and gentleman! "Whatever it takes to help you sleep at night," I say, rolling my eyes and leading Rachel out of the classroom, making sure each long stride of mine puts plenty of distance between us and Rick.

If there's one thing I've learned, it's that people who resemble unpredictable, ticking time-bombs are not to be trusted. Just when you think they may have a soul after all, that's when they choose to prove just how evil they can truly be.

* * *

><p>After Glee Club practice, the Rescue Buttercup Brigade convenes in Rachel's bedroom.<p>

Brittany sits on Rachel's desk chair, with Santana on her lap. Puck lays on Rachel's flower-shaped rug, hands tucked behind his head in a makeshift pillow. I'm on the edge of Rachel's bed, feet on the floor. And Rachel herself stands before us with a thin stack of papers in her hands.

She clears her throat to get everyone's attention. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman."

Santana laughs. "_Puck? _A _gentleman? _Yeah, right, and I'm the Queen of Sheba!"

Puck sits up and uses a loud fake-sneeze to shoot his middle finger toward Santana.

"I rest my case," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Excuse me," Rachel says, voice ringing loud and clear. "Please, pay attention, you guys. This is very important. Right, Quinn?"

"Right," I nod.

"All right, so, I have here in my hands the itinerary for our Retrieve Buttercup Mission. As Quinn and I have already discussed, the best plan of action is to strike this Sunday morning, when her parents are sure to be at church." Rachel pulls out the paper from the top of the stack and hands it to Puck.

"Noah," she says, "You're our Getaway Driver."

"Sweet!" Puck pumps a fist in the air.

"We will all meet at my house at precisely eight-twenty on Sunday morning," Rachel continues, "Ten minutes after Mr. and Mrs. Fabray will have left for church. We will pile into Noah's truck and let him drive us to our destination and back from it."

She hands the next two pages to San and Britt. "Santana and Brittany, you will be our look-out girls. Distract anybody who comes too close to us and, should they slip by your boundaries, alert us as soon as possible so we can get out of there."

Brittany rubs her lips together. "Ummm… Yeah, okay, here's the thing; my talents are far too great to be wasted as a look-out. I was picturing myself being the one to get Buttercup out."

"Sorry, Brittany, but we really need at least two look-outs to station at opposite ends of the house," Rachel says. "These are highly-crucial positions, I promise you."

Santana fiddles with Brittany's ponytail while the blonde thinks it over. "Hmmm…" Brittany says. "Okay, can I at least use binoculars?"

"Certainly!"

"Awesome!" Brittany grins. She does a little bounce, rocking Santana on her lap and making her girlfriend giggle.

"I have some super awesome spy-ninja binoculars I've been dying to use," Brittany tells Santana, who kisses her on the cheek and cuddles into her.

"And, finally, there's me and Quinn," Rachel says. I swing my attention over to her, a soft smile pulling at the corners of my lips at that.

'Me and Quinn.' The way Rachel says it… I don't know, it just makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. We're a team, indispensible when working together, best friends who don't split up – it's almost too good to be true.

She hands me one of the last two papers, keeping the final one for herself. The title of mine is typed in big, bold font: **'RESCUE BUTTERCUP FABRAY' ITINERARY.**

Oh my God, she used my surname with my pet? That is seriously way too cute of her! Just when I think Rachel can't get any more adorable, she goes and makes a detailed schedule on how to get my dog back.

Below the title is a bullet-point list of everyone's assigned duties, the times at which they are to be carried out, and finally, at the end in the same wording as the title, is: **IF ALL GOES WELL: SUCCESS!** There's even a ClipArt picture of a golden retriever, and of course Rachel bordered the word 'success' with glittery gold star stickers.

I look up from the paper, smiling right at Rachel; when our eyes lock, her previously serious expression breaks into this adorably conspiring grin.

"And what are _we_ going to do?" I ask, even though I already read it on the paper.

"We're going to be the field operatives," she says. "The ones who sneak in and get her out."

"Why do you get all the fun?" Brittany pouts.

"We'll have fun on look-out, Britt," Santana insists. "B-T-dubs, I'm totally down for using walkie-talkies. Like, I could easily tape one to my underboob."

"Ummm…" My eyebrows scrunch together. "Yeah, let's not use our breasts to store communication devices."

"I think that'd be hot," Puck says.

"Which is exactly why we shouldn't do it," Rachel quips, making me chuckle.

"Your room is so pink," Brittany says in that random, wistful tone she gets. "I feel like I'm inside a giant cupcake."

"Well… That's one way to look at it," Rachel says. "Thank you."

Santana slides off of her girlfriend's lap and brushes down the seat of her riding-up Cheerios skirt. "All right, so, we'll meet here on Sunday morning. God, I must really love you, Q, if I'm giving up my beauty rest to help you get your dog back."

Amused, I smile at her and outstretch my arms. "You _do_ really love me."

Rolling her eyes but fighting back a smile of her own, Santana slips her hands into mine and lets me pull her against me. We share a tight, warm hug.

"Not that I'm complaining or anything, but I can completely see up your skirt, Santana," Puck says from his spot on the floor. "You have a very nice, clean bikini line around your built-in underwear: there're no bumps or anything."

In response, still holding onto me, she kicks his shoulder. Hard enough for Puck to whine: "_Owww!_"

"Oh, shut up," Santana scoffs, pulling away from me and scowling down at him. "You're such a pansy, and you totally deserved that."

"Whatever," Puck gripes, rubbing at his shoulder. Brittany and I can't help but laugh, whereas Rachel takes a step back from Puck, smoothes down her own skirt, and shoots him a warning glare.

Brittany stands up and takes Santana's hand. "As much as we'd love to stay and chat and kick Puck, we need to get home to give Lord Tubbington his afternoon snack. If his blood sugar level drops too low, he gets really cranky and pees in my bed."

"What she said," Santana nods.

Puck hops to his feet. "I guess I better get going, too. I need to go home and play some super violent videogames so I don't get my period or something after all your estrogen."

"I'm just proud you know the difference between testosterone and estrogen," Rachel says, leaping onto her tiptoes to ruffle Puck's Mohawk. "You really did learn something in school after all."

Puck catches her hand and gently twists her arm around her back, swinging her into his side so he can have the perfect vantage point to noogie her head.

"AAAGGH! STOP IT!" Rachel flails around beneath his grip.

"Want me to kick him in the balls for you?" Santana asks, already pulling back her foot.

"No more violence," Brittany says, but I'm already grabbing a pillow from Rachel's bed and whacking Puck repeatedly over the head with it.

He stops messing up Rachel's hair in order to jump away from my feathery wrath.

"Thanks," Rachel tells me, glowering at Puck and ducking behind me like I'm a human shield.

"I'll protect you," I say, holding up my pillow like a sword or something, basically being a total dork.

"Okay, LARPing is where I officially draw the line," Santana says. "Come on, Britt." Pinkies locked, she tugs Britt after her, who waves over her shoulder at us in goodbye.

"See ya bright and early Sunday morning!" Brittany calls, already halfway out Rachel's bedroom.

"See ya," Rachel calls back.

Puck sticks his hands in his front jean pockets and gives us a half-bow. "Peace out, ladies."

"Make sure to actually _be on time _on Sunday," I say.

"Yeah, yeah," he flicks a hand behind him as he leaves.

Rachel and I turn to each other, shaking our heads at our friends.

"So, what do you want to do now?" I ask.

"Homework?" Rachel suggests.

I fix her with a pointed look.

She chuckles. "All right, we can go watch some TV first."

"Yay!" I hold out my elbow. "Come on, milady."

Grinning, she links our arms together. "Lead the way," she says.

And I do, with a fresh pep in my step. I have the four best friends anyone could ask for, I'm going to have my dog back in two days, and I'm about to relax on the couch after a long week at school.

I think things are finally looking up.

* * *

><p>Sunday morning arrives after a weekend spent practically bursting apart with excitement for this very day.<p>

Bright and early, I roll out of bed and change into a golden-yellow blouse paired with some simple jeans. I make sure to wear a sensible (but cute, of course) pair of dark-blue-with-white-polka-dots flats.

After I'm done styling my hair into a sleek ponytail, I exit the hallway bathroom and knock on Rachel's door.

"You up yet?" I ask at a respectable volume, not wanting to wake her dads.

"Of course," she chirps from the other side. "Come on in!"

I waste no time in obliging; I close the door behind me, about to ask her how she slept last night, but when I swivel to fully face her, all my words slip right off my tongue.

My eyes pop wide and lips part as I stare at her. "You're joking, right?"

She cocks her head, lowers her brow. "What do you mean?"

My mouth twists into an amused smirk. "Rachel! We're not breaking into some fancy art museum to steal the _Mona Lisa_. Not the mention the fact that it's not even dark outside."

Rachel slides in front of her bureau's mirror to inspect her wardrobe. "An actor's costume is a very crucial part of their interpretation, Quinn. How am I going to prepare for the part of renowned dog burglar if I'm dressed – no offense – like you are, with a regular old outfit on?"

Quickly, she turns to me and adds, "Not that you don't look lovely, of course. But, if someone happens to see us, you'll be instantly recognized."

I can't help it; fierce giggles spill over as I bend at the waist. "Oh, honey! _Nooo!_"

Unable to stop cracking up now that I've started, I watch as a defensive-looking Rachel turns her nose up at me in the mirror. I take the opportunity to further inspect her ensemble – the thick black turtleneck sweater, even though it's springtime. The black pants, black combat boots, and the fact that her hair is tucked up into a black newsboy cap.

And then there are the honest-to-God _camouflage streaks_ across her cheekbones, thick and black like the festive paint football players wear.

"Would you stop laughing at me?" she snaps, stepping away from the mirror and striding over to her bed. She picks up her backpack and starts emptying its textbooks and journals out onto her bedspread.

I walk over to her and place a hand on her shoulder. She stiffens and shoots me a scowl.

"You're way too adorable," I say with a shake of my head and a final giggle. "Friends rib each other, all right? It's a sign of affection."

Rachel's expression softens into a gentle smile. Blushing, she ducks her head and pulls the final book from her backpack. "I just don't like being laughed at," she says quietly.

"I was laughing _with _you, not _at_ you. Big difference. I would think you'd know that by now."

Still not looking at me, she says, "It's the high ponytail you're wearing. It's triggering me back to when you were a cheerleader and would pick on me all the time for no reason."

My stomach squeezes like I've been punched in the gut. "Um, no, I had reasons."

Rachel spins toward me, eyebrows leaping and mouth pursing. She cocks a hand on her hip. "Oh, really? I'd love to hear them."

_Yeah, great reasons. Like how I've had a thing for you all this time. Like how every time I tried to crush you, you just rose back stronger, making me feel weak._

"Reasons, like how I was a total closet-case bitch who was working through a lot of stuff," I mumble, scrutinizing my _fascinating _manicure. So red and polished and…red!

When I look back at Rachel, all her anger has melted. "You're right. I understand. And it's not like I was totally innocent, trying to steal Finn away from you time and time again."

I seriously have to hold my breath for a moment in order to not unleash a banshee-like shriek. FINN! How the _hell _do our conversations always come back to revolving around freaking FINN?

After releasing my breath and trying to relax my tensed posture, I say, "Enough of this heavy talk. We should be celebrating today! Getting my dog back and all."

"Exactly!" She brightens, flipping back into her usual sunbeams and rainbows. "I really am so very excited for this, Quinn."

A smile snakes up my lips. "Same here. And it's not like we can go wrong, when I have Batgirl on my side and everything." I nudge her lightly in the side so she'll know I'm just joking.

Rachel laughs a little, just a little, but it's genuine, and it's warm, and it's the sweetest sound I've heard all morning. Even sweeter than the birds chirping outside my window.

"What are you doing with your backpack?" I ask, the smile still hanging around my lips.

"I'm swapping my school supplies out for some renegade provisions," she explains in that matter-of-fact, pedantic way of hers. "I would hate for a lack of preparedness to be our downfall in rescuing Buttercup."

"Rachel, I swear to God if you pack a grappling hook, I'm calling this whole thing off."

She chuckles. "No, silly! I'm going to bring some walkie-talkies, some snacks, water bottles, and some dog biscuits my dads bought yesterday."

"Oh, yeah," she adds, "and I'm bringing this can that looks like perfume, but when you press down the nozzle, it sprays out _laser beams_. I got it on eBay!" She nods these slow, serious nods, her eyes comically wide and her mouth flattened at the edges.

She's a good actress, but she's going to have to do a lot better than that to fool me. I lift my eyebrows at her, prompting her to explode into giggles.

"You should have seen your face!" she says. "You totally fell for it."

I roll my eyes. "You're impossible. And a really bad liar. Come on now; let's go grab some breakfast before the rest of the gang gets here."

She slings one strap of her backpack over a shoulder and follows me out of her room and down into the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later, my phone buzzes with a text from Brittany.

"Britt and San are here," I tell Rachel, my heart doing an Olympic-worthy pole vault at the idea of this plan _finally _rolling into action and falling into place. "Let's go!"

We exit her house and walk out onto her driveway, where Santana is pulling up in her car. In perfect timing, Puck's truck pulls up not even five seconds after.

San, Britt, and Puck climb out of their respective vehicles. As soon as Brittany comes into view, Rachel and I exchange glances – mine is of surprise, and Rachel's is of smug satisfaction.

"See?" Rachel crows, smirk a mile wide. "I knew my outfit wasn't crazy!"

"Rach," I whisper. "It's _Brittany_. She's not exactly a validation for rationality, don't you think?"

Rachel's smirk freezes quite comically on her face at this realization.

The girl in question, Brittany, wears green camouflage all over – her cargo shorts, T-shirt, even the socks of her tennis shoes. Her hair is worn in a Katniss-Everdeen-worthy braid.

"Hi, guys," the bubbly blonde says as she approaches us. "See, Santana, I told you I wouldn't be the only one smart enough to dress in disguise."

At least Santana's dressed normally. Instead of the Cheerios uniform I'm so used to seeing her and Britt wearing, Santana has on a pair of tight jeans, a black blouse, and a beautiful dark blue leather jacket. Her hair is worn down for once, flowing around her in thick locks, and it's almost unfair how gorgeous she is, even at eight-twenty in the morning without a lick of make-up.

Her eyebrows are so far up her forehead, they practically blend into her dark hairline. I can tell she's holding back a barrage of insulting jokes to toss Rachel's way, but since her own girlfriend isn't faring much better in the fashion department today, she can't unleash her sassy nature.

"Yeah, Britt," Santana says, sharing a 'at least _we're_ sane' type of look with me. "You definitely aren't the only one who…uh…dressed the part." Oh, it's eating her up alive not to be able to tease Rachel. Does it make me a bad friend to sort of find Santana's pain at this hilarious?

Puck brings up the rear, hands stuffed in his jeans' front pockets. He just shakes his head at Britt and Rach, sighs loudly, and valiantly chooses to ignore them. "All right!" He claps his hands together and swivels toward me with an enthusiastic grin on his face. "Let's get this show on the road! You got your old house key, Quinn?"

I pull my key chain from my back pocket and wiggle it in the air. "Of course."

"Follow me," he says, pivoting around and marching back to his truck.

We all follow after him, Brittany chatting Rachel's ear off about how genius her outfit is. I chance a peek over my shoulder and have to smile at how cheekily Rachel is grinning over Brittany's overflowing praise.

After piling into the car (Rach and I squeeze into the other two front seats with Puck, – I'm not complaining with this seating arrangement – and San and Britt sit together in the back), Puck revs the engine and starts us on the short journey to my house.

My stomach comes alive with writhing ropes whipping around one another and pulling fast into knots. And for the first time since deciding I'm getting my dog back, I feel something other than excitement and a gleeful anticipation.

I feel dread. Fear.

They're heavy and cold and prickling my palms with clammy beads of sweat. How am I going to deal with being back in the place where I grew up? The place where my parents found out? The place where my whole life was turned upside-down in a minute?

How am I going to walk back into the place where I was kicked out, abandoned?

I take deep breaths, trying to remain calm, and am struck with the sudden urge to pray. I think about asking God for some favors, but quickly decide against putting my faith in Him again.

We all know how well that turned out the last time.

* * *

><p>Puck parks the truck three houses down from mine.<p>

My neighborhood is filled with people who go to the same church as me – er, as _I used to go to_ – so I know that most people won't even be around here right now. Still, I'm nervous that we'll be caught redhanded or spotted from a window and then my parents will find out and track me down and take Buttercup back capture and me and throw me in a dungeon and – _whoa, Quinn, no more fairytales before bedtime._

"All right, you guys," Rachel says as everyone but Puck slides out of the car. "You all know your places. Let's not mess this up now."

She slips her hand into mine so fast and so sure, our fingers linking together in a heartbeat; it's almost like it's second nature to her. Like: Breathe, blink, comfort Quinn, breathe blink, hold Quinn's hand, etc.

She looks up at me with an encouraging smile. "We got this, Fabray."

I smile down at her, not sure if my stomach is fluttering so intensely from the rescue mission or from the way her hand is snuggled into mine like it never wants to let go. "We sure do, Berry."

"_Psst_," Brittany frantically waves Rachel and me over to where she and Santana are standing behind a giant tree. I'm pleased to note that Rachel doesn't let go of my hand when we walk over there.

Dangling from Brittany's neck is the kind of cheap plastic binoculars that come from collecting enough cereal box tabs. It probably doesn't even work correctly, but of course she wears it like it's her most prized weapon.

"Okay, girls, I have an idea," Britt says, the beginnings of a proud smile twitching at her lips – which are actually, I am not joking here (though I wish I were) colored with dark green, camo-esque lipstick. It's like she just made-out with the Grinch or something.

Funny that I mention the famous Christmastime character, because Brittany says, "As you all know, I am very close friends with Santa. He's everything any of us should aspire to be when we grow up. So, I have the perfect plan!"

I fight the urge to swap an 'uh-oh' expression with San or Rach; instead, I keep my eyes trained on Britt, trying to look politely interested and not as horrified as I feel. I'm unable to control one of my eyebrows from quirking up, though; old habits die hard, I guess.

"Which is…?" I prompt after a moment of prolonged anticipatory silence.

"Rachel is going to shimmy down the chimney, get Buttercup, and then bring her back up the chimney, all in, like, five minutes flat," Brittany says, licking her lips as they pull back into a toothy grin. "It's perfect because Rachel is even tinier than an elf, so she'll be able to squeeze down the chimney without having to use Santa's magic, _and_ she's already wearing all-black, so any coal or ash in there won't ruin her outfit!"

"I'm afraid of heights," Rachel says quickly, even though I'm not entirely sure this is true.

"Britt, that's a _genius _idea," Santana insists, placing a hand against her girlfriend's upper arm. "But maybe we shouldn't make this any more difficult than it has to be?"

"Thanks for the suggestion, but we've got it covered," I tell Brittany with a smile that is genuine in its gratitude. I hate seeing the sparkle in her eyes dim at being rejected, but her plan is far too dangerous (and just plain ridiculous, to be honest) to humor.

She sighs. "Fine. Whatever. Just trying to help."

Rachel releases my hand in order to maneuver around inside her bag, making me inwardly curse whoever invented backpacks. She pulls out four walkie-talkies and distributes them against our group.

"Remember, girls," she says to Britt and San with a fierce look in her eyes. "You're the look-outs. It is _imperative _that you inform me and Quinn _right away _if you see someone coming or spot any suspicious behavior. _IMPERATIVE!_"

Santana looks like she wants to whack Rachel upside the head with the walkie-talkie she's clenching rather tightly in her fists. Brittany, however, is nodding in agreement, eyes locked into Rachel's with a life-or-death understatement flowing between them.

"Come on," I say, holding out my hand not grasping the walkie-talkie. "Break on it on three?"

"Break on _what?_" Santana asks. "We can't exactly do 'the Unholy Trinity' when there are four of us."

"How about… Team Awesome?" Brittany suggests, chewing on her lower lip and shrugging.

"That sounds… well, awesome!" Rachel giggles.

And so four hands pile up, one on top of the other, and we quietly cheer: "Team Awesome!"

And I'll be damned if I'm not grinning like the world's biggest goober.

Team Awesome treks across the three neighbor lawns until we land on the front yard of my old house.

A ferocious wave of nostalgia crashes over me – I swear, it's like this feeling has _fangs_, sinking into me and ripping through my chest's flesh, right into my heart. For a moment, staring at my former home – God, it's just… It's excruciating. It's my childhood in there, all my Christmas mornings and losing my baby teeth and after-school snacks with my mom.

Rachel tugs on my elbow, prompting me to look at her, and I'm sure my face is ashen and my mouth is grim. She offers me this tiny smile, and I think that maybe her eyes are wet, or perhaps it's just the way the sun is shining into them.

"You're stronger than you know," she says. And standing here with her hand on my elbow and our eyes connected and all my best friends helping me out on this crazy mission, I can't help but to believe her.

I duck my head, suddenly bashful, and smile to myself. "All right," I say. When I look back at her, I feel a new resolve, a new _strength_, seeping into my system. "Let's go get my motherfucking dog back."

Rachel's mouth drops open and eyes widen at my colorful vocabulary, making me laugh loud enough that I have to clap a hand immediately over my mouth.

I'm hoping I won't succumb to a fit of the giggles – but man is it hard not to when Rachel looks so hilariously shocked and also like she, too, is trying desperately not to laugh – when our walkie-talkies crackle to life.

"_Ten-four, this is Brittany Susan Pierce, calling with her coordinates over by the west end of the house,"_ Brittany's voice says. "_Is this Team Awesome, or did I accidentally contact that Mexican food place again? Over._"

Before Rach or I can reply, Santana's voice comes from the speakers. "_Britt! I _told _you, that wasn't a Mexican restaurant; that was _me._ And I'm not Mexican; I'm Latina."_

A few long beats of silence pass. I'm about to respond myself when Brittany says, "_Sorry, Santana, I got confused. And, were you done talking? You're supposed to say 'over' when you're done talking. Or else how do we know you weren't snuck up behind and kidnapped in the middle of your sentence? … Over._"

"_Yes, Britt, because I'm going to get kidnapped in the middle of one of the nicest neighborhoods in Lima, filled primarily with rich Christian people,_" Santana says, and it's amazing how, just because it's Brittany, her tone is far more affectionately amused than annoyed. "_…Oh yeah, um, over!_"

"So, the coast is clear?" Rachel asks into her walkie-talkie. "Quinn and I may proceed?"

She releases her thumb from the transmitter button, making me lift my eyebrows at her and say playfully, "Don't forget to say 'over.'"

Smirking, Rachel hits the button and adds the crucial word to appease Brittany.

"_Yep, the coast is clear on both our ends,_" Santana says. "_Over._"

"All right, girls," I say into my walkie-talkie, relishing the rush of power I get at taking command. It's pathetic how much like a real spy I feel with this cheap, run-of-the-mill communication device in my hands. "Remember your training; remember the mission; remember to not back down for even a minute." Okay, I'm definitely getting carried away here. "Over and out!"

Rachel smiles at me. "I like a girl who takes action," she teases, probably not understanding why that makes me swivel away from her to hide an epic blush.

We clip our walkie-talkies to our pants and sneak to my front door. I'm overly paranoid that someone's going to pop out and render this mission failed before it's even really begun.

I pull my keychain from my back pocket and wriggle my house key into the lock, twisting and turning and waiting to hear the tell-tale _click_ing noise. Waiting and waiting and waiting, _wheeennn!_…

Nothing.

Oh my God! _Nothing_.

Rachel must notice the panic flitting across my face. "What's wrong?"

I shake my head, too alarmed to even speak, and try every single one of my keys in the damn doorknob's lock, even my car key which _obviously_ won't work. I try the house key like ten more times, at different speeds and different, ridiculous angles, even though it's never given me trouble before.

"Is the key getting stuck?" Rachel whispers, keeping her eyes peeled for any neighbor arrivals, even though that's San and Britt's job.

"No," I hiss, because I am on edge like a rubber band yanked from opposite ends, "I don't fucking _believe_ this! They got the locks changed!"

I stuff the keychain back into my pocket, hard enough to possibly rip a hole but not caring in the least. I whirl to face Rachel, throwing my arms up in the air and letting them _swoosh_ back down. "They actually had the locks changed so I couldn't get back into my own house! What the freaking _hell_, Rachel?" I am on the verge of tears; my heart is pounding too fast, beating in my ears like a tribal drum.

"Hey, hey, it's going to be okay," she insists, her face screwed into deep thought. She taps her foot, licks her lips, then pulls out her walkie-talkie. "Team Awesome?" she says into it. "You read me? … Hello? … _Ugh, _OVER, okay?!"

"_Yeah, Berry,_" Santana says. "_What's taking so long? Over._"

I answer, "My parents changed the locks on me!"

Santana doesn't even wait for me to say 'over' before she's hissing, "_Those fuckers!_"

Brittany quickly chimes in, "_Okay, no biggie, we'll just hop the fence into your backyard. It's not like San and I don't hop each other's fences all the time for a late-night make-out session. And I guess we can stop with the 'over' thing._"

"Actually, Britt, it's a pretty big 'biggie,'" I say, tone harsher than I'd intended. "My parents switched the locks on me, okay? You have no idea how messed up that is."

Honestly, I don't know if _I _really even understand why I'm so upset… Probably because this whole thing feels so much more real now. They really want me gone, badly enough that they ensured I could never return without their permission. I really am a stranger to my own house now.

"Besides," I add, "My fence is, like, seven feet tall and next exactly made for climbing. How are any of us going to get over it?"

"_I think you're forgetting something,_" Brittany says, and it's weird because it's like her voice is coming from two places at once, both clear and crackly at the same time. "_We have three of the best former or current cheerleaders in the history of cheerleading with us. If there's one thing we're good at, it's hoisting people over the top of a pyramid. Also, most of us are pretty good at spelling stuff._"

I turn around and see that Brittany and Santana have been standing right behind Rachel and me, most likely since the beginning of Britt's little speech.

"Why are you still talking into that thing?" Rachel asks.

"_Because this is highly classified information that must only be shared with you guys," _Brittany says into her walkie-talkie while staring right at us. "_Also, I like how it sort of makes me sound like a robot._"

"_Bleep, beep, bo-beep, bleep,_" she adds with a straight face. She turns off her walkie-talkie and explains to us, "That meant 'over' in Martian."

"Okie dokie then!" Rachel says, rubbing her hands together. "How 'bout that pyramid?"

* * *

><p>A few minutes later, after I've checked the secret hiding place where my parents always <em>used <em>to hide a spare key and find nothing, Team Awesome is gathered before my back fence.

Santana starts to argue for why she should get to be at the top of the pyramid when I oh-so-sweetly remind her that this is _my _dog at _my_ godforsaken house, so _I _will be the one hoisted over _my _fence, thankyouverymuch.

"Oh, Quinn, please be careful!" Rachel cries, twisting her lip at an odd angle beneath her teeth. She looks so adorably worried, making me have to smile just a little bit.

"I used to do this on top of _thirty _girls," I say (prompting Santana to snicker and mutter "_wanky_"). "Don't worry; I can handle this just fine."

Brittany and Santana kneel on all fours. Rachel hurries over to spot me from behind, even though nobody asked her and even though I wouldn't be injured if I fell from this short height. But still, the fact that she does this makes me kind of wish I _would_ fall, just to land in her outstretched arms.

I hoist myself onto San and Britt, evenly distributing my weight by placing one foot on each of their backs. I now have an extra foot of a boost to my five-foot-six height. That means there's only one foot I have to climb over on this fence.

I curl my hands around two of the fence posts and pop upward, putting all my strength into my arms. I feel my biceps and triceps flexing as I lift up my upper body, swing my legs with as much momentum as I can, and manage to latch my feet onto the only horizontal post that runs the length of the top of the fence.

Now I'm squatting in a very strange position, my butt high in the air (and probably, like, right in Rachel's face, I'm embarrassed to admit). All of my arm muscles are straining from holding up my body weight. I take a deep breath and do a little jump – for one terrifying moment, the fence rattles, eliciting a gasp from Rachel – and manage to swing myself up and over the fence… And land hard on the grassy dirt below, banging my elbow and cutting into my hip.

The wind is knocked out from my lungs for a handful of agonizing seconds.

"Quinn?!" Rachel calls, loudly enough for Santana to fiercely shush her. "Oh my God, Quinn, are you all right? I heard a crash!"

"I'm fine," I manage to call over, even though my voice is croaky and my body aches and my brain is thinking, _Ouuuccchhh._

But then I really _am _fine – finer than I have been in weeks – because a beautiful, glorious, _perfect_ bark fills the air, followed by the patter of fast doggie footsteps, and just as I am crawling halfway up to my feet, Buttercup zooms into view and tackles me flat on my back.

She barks and licks my face and whines and barks again, and I am laughing and laughing, and crying tears of joy and relief and so many other things. I pet her and roll around with her and feel her tail whipping a million miles a minute against my legs.

"I'm here, baby," I tell her, scratching behind her ears. "Mama came back for you."

Even when I move just a centimeter away, she's right after me, as if afraid I'll leave her again. She nuzzles her wet black nose against my cheek and snuffles into my hair and whines some more, and I don't even feel the scrapes and bruises from the fall anymore.

After several moments of reuniting with my baby, I manage to get back on my feet despite Buttercup pawing at my legs, begging me to play with her some more.

I swipe at some tears and, grinning from ear-to-ear, I call out, "I've got Buttercup! There's actually something I need to do before we leave, though, okay?"

"Sure thing, Q," Santana says. "Just make it snappy, 'cause this mission is taking longer than we planned."

"Yeah, I'll make it fast," I promise. True to my word, I practically run right over to my back door. Gently, I push Buttercup away from my legs, cooing at her to just hold on one second.

I wiggle the back doorknob even though it's of course going to be locked. I even try the house key, just in case, but yep, they had this lock switched out, too.

So, I have to resort to the most spy tactic of them all: I drop to my knees and crawl through the flap of the doggie door.

I'm eternally grateful that Buttercup is a big dog whereas I am a slender girl. If I had a terrier or, God forbid, a _Chihuahua_, there's no way I would have been able to match their size and shimmy through.

Once I've made it inside the house (into the kitchen, to be specific), I hop to my feet and dust myself off. For just a second, I let myself reminisce. I close my eyes and inhale the familiar scent of my house. I let nostalgia and memories and regrets swirl around me, _inside_ me, swishing the end of my ponytail like a tuft of wind.

But then I open my eyes and snap back to business. I know that my parents shouldn't be home from church until at least an hour and a half from now, but there's no way I'm taking my chances or pressing my luck here by dawdling around. Chances and luck aren't very reliable commodities in this household.

It doesn't take me long to find what I'm looking for; there, over by a bowl of bruised fruit, is a miniature wooden shelf with pegs sticking from the top.

And on one of those pegs is a shiny, brand-new-looking silver key.

I walk over to the key and don't even hesitate it plucking it from the peg. It feels cool to the touch, the teeth more jagged and spaced farther apart than the old house key. I deposit into my back pocket, not even feeling a hint of guilt for technically stealing.

I'm positive my parents won't think someone took the key. After all, who breaks into a house just to steal a key for the house they _just broke into _and thus don't even need a key in the first place? Exactly.

I'm tempted to go up to my room and grab a few more clothes to take back with me, but I don't want to push my boundaries on my first visit back here. Now that I've got a copy of the new key, I should be able to come and go as I please (well, come and go when I know my parents won't be here, I mean).

I'm even _more _tempted to trash this place up a bit, maybe take some eggs from the fridge and throw them around, or cut up the throw pillows on the couch, or take the family photos from the frames and rip them into scattered bits... _The family photos._

Without even telling my legs what to do, they carry me into the living room (Buttercup is hot on my heels). I don't even know why my heart is thumping so incredibly fast as my eyes scan the room.

I don't know why I feel actually _relieved _when I see that all the family portraits still hang from the walls or are displayed on the shelves, and that most importantly, I haven't been cut out of them.

I shake my head at myself for still _caring _about this stupid family. It's not like they're even _my _family anymore. That's been made abundantly clear.

"Come on, Buttercup," I say, leading the way back to the kitchen door. "It's time to go to your new home."

_Home_.

Because home is not a house; it's where your heart is.

And now I realize that my heart belongs with people like the Berries and Santana and Brittany and Puck. People who support me, care for me, and _love _me unconditionally.

Yes, I have a new home now.

And you know what? I think it's even better than my old one.

* * *

><p>After flattening myself back out the doggie door, Buttercup and I make our way back across my backyard to the fence.<p>

"I'm back," I call over.

"Good," says Brittany. "We were starting to get worried."

"Wait a minute," Santana says, "How the hell are you going to get back _over _the fence?" I can _hear _the 'oh shit!' expression appearing all over her face.

I chuckle. "Don't worry about that. It locks from the inside, and I don't have to have a key. And the handle isn't high up at all."

After unfastening the chain that latches the fence shut, I push the fence open and step out with Buttercup right behind me.

"Oh, there she is!" Rachel squeals, and it's embarrassing how my heart does this giant jump and I grin all cockily because I think she's talking about me… But then I look and see that she's squatting down and talking to _Buttercup_, who has launched herself into Rachel's arms like they're old friends. And I suppose that, in a way, they are.

"Glad you made it, Agent Q," Brittany tells me with a salute. Then, she pats my arm and flashes me a joyful smile.

Everyone loves on Buttercup for a minute or two. Even Santana giggles uncharacteristically girlishly when Buttercup licks her face.

"We should get back to Puck now," I say.

"What about the fence?" Brittany asks.

"I'm going to leave it open so it looks like Buttercup pushed it opened and escaped. My dad will just think he forgot to lock it, which has happened before."

"Brilliant," Santana says, nodding at me.

"Thanks," I smile.

The four of us and our furry friend make the short trip to Puck's truck. He's still perched in the driver's seat, reading an automobile magazine and listening to a classic-rock station on the radio.

When he notices we've arrived, he gets out of the truck and comes around to high-five all of us (even Buttercup, who also gets a quick belly-rub).

"Sweet, dudes!" he cheers. "Awesome job! Maybe you're all a bunch of badasses after all! But what took so long?"

"Quinn's parents changed the locks," Santana says.

"Those fuckers," Puck glowers down at the ground and shakes his head back and forth.

Santana nods emphatically. "Exactly!"

There's no room for Buttercup inside the car, so Puck and I hoist her into the bed of his truck. Like a good girl, she lays down when I tell her to, tail non-stop wagging and a giant grin all over her face.

"We did it!" I squeal, high on adrenaline and the beautiful satisfaction of having my dog back. I even do a happy-dance.

Brittany throws her arms around me in a dancing hug, then Santana joins in, followed by Puck, whose long arms stretch around us all. I'm crammed in the middle, laughing and cheering with everyone, when my eyes fall on Rachel. She stands off to the side, smiling softly at us but rubbing her hands against her elbows and rocking back and forth on her feet.

"Um, excuse me, Rachel," I call out, "What do you think you're doing?"

She blushes and shrugs, looking unsure of herself.

"Get your little booty over here!" I say. "You're a part of this hug, too!"

"Yeah, come on," Puck and Brittany insist.

Rachel smiles, slowly but surely, and takes a tentative step forward.

"Berry, what the hell are you waiting for?" Santana demands. "You better join in on our Circle of Lovin', before I get my feelings hurt and have to go all Lima Heights on your ass, mmmkay?"

It's the final seal of validation she needs; beaming, Rachel skips over and joins our group-hug, giggling with us as the girls start chanting "Team Awesome!" and Puck proclaims that we're all "really freaking weird."

It takes me a moment to pinpoint what this weightless, warm, _incredible _feeling is floating up all inside me, lighting my smile from within and making ridiculous giggles stream from my throat.

And then it hits me: For the first time in weeks, in months, or maybe in my whole sorry lifetime, I am really, _truly_, no-strings-attached Happy.

As if I am invincible, and these crazy folks around me are my armor.

I could get used to this.


	29. Chapter 29

Hey guys! Jeez, it's been over a month since I last updated this. How does this keep happening? lol Thank you to everyone who is still sticking with this story! :D It means a lot to me, and I have some exciting things in store for the upcoming chapters (which I will try to update much more regularly from now on).

Just to clear something up, Buttercup was not being tortured when Quinn got that anonymous phone call in the last chapter. LOL, oh my God, that would be so horrible! What kind of person do you guys think I am? :O lol but yeah, a few of you thought the "wounded animal" type noise was from her, when really it was a person who was making a sad noise like a wounded animal. I hope I cleared that up for those who were concerned. :)

ALSO! You should all go listen to **"If It Kills Me" by Jason Mraz**. It's the most Faberry song of them all, in my humble opinion. And it is literally the theme song to this story.

And, finally, "Happy Halloween!" I hope this chapter comes as far more of a "treat" than a "trick" to you guys. ;D I hope you enjoy, and as always, please review!

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE<strong>

I ride my high of happiness all through Sunday.

It definitely makes one of the Top 5 Best Days of My Life; I can't remember the last time everything has just feel so…_right_.

Puck, Britt, and San hang out with me and Rach at her house for a couple of hours after we get back from our rescue mission. We play with Buttercup in the backyard, tossing her treats and playing fetch. A game of tag breaks out amongst us humans, and we all run around, laughing like little kids and squealing in fear when the "tagger" gets too close.

Afterward, we convene in Rachel's kitchen for some juice and Oreos, you know, just to make us properly feel that we're back in pre-school. As if playing tag and hide-and-go-seek hadn't been enough. (Rachel's a beast at hide-and-go-seek, by the way; it must be her size, able to squeeze into the smallest spaces. Brittany is the worst at it, because she giggles when the seeker comes into her view, instantly giving away her position.)

After the trio left, Mr. Berry^Squared get back from shopping. Sundays are usually the Berry's Family Day, but since they knew about the plans Rachel and I had for the day, they decided to postpone the bonding festivities until the evening.

Hiram and Leroy just _love _Buttercup; she takes to them right away, and I can tell they've just made a furry friend for life.

The four of us spread out in the living room – Rachel's fathers cuddle on the couch, while Rachel sits in the recliner and I lay on the floor with Buttercup curled against me – and eat dinner while watching a marathon of _Friends _season one. It turns out the Berries own the complete series, and – a little fun bit of trivia for ya – they named Rachel after the character played by Jennifer Aniston.

Now, it's ten o'clock, almost time for bed. Rachel and I are in her room, already in our pajamas, her iPod dock on and set to shuffle, currently playing – what else? – a classic Broadway song.

Leroy and Hiram are back in their bedroom while Buttercup is in the backyard, where she will sleep. I'm a little bummed that she won't be sleeping in bed with me like she used to at my old house, but they've already done so much for me that it would be rude of me to ask. I may hit them up for it after a week or two, but there's no way I want to become a nuisance and overstep my boundaries.

Rachel sits on the edge of her bed; I sit cross-legged on the floor below her. She sings along to the tune from _Wicked_ as she French-braids my hair.

My eyes are closed in contentment, head tilted back, savoring the sensation of her fingers gently tugging through my hair and savoring the sound of her heavenly voice saturating the air around us.

Rachel harmonizes perfectly with Idina Menzel as Elphaba; I swear, their vocal ranges match up so well, it's like their voices are mother and daughter.

I only know a few of the verses, most of which are Kristin Chenoweth as Glinda's parts, but I join in when I can.

"What's this song called?" I ask.

"'For Good,'" Rachel says, expert fingers weaving my three sections of hair around one another. Seeing as how my hair isn't that long, she's already almost done with the braid. "It's one of my favorites. You seem to know quite a bit of it yourself."

I smile, eyes still closed. "I really like it; the entire _Wicked _soundtrack is pretty awesome, actually."

Rachel gives a melodramatic gasp. "What's that I hear? Did Quinn Fabray just admit to liking _show tunes?_ _Ooooohhh!_"

I chuckle. "Hey, not _all _show tunes are bad. _Most _of them, yes, but not _all_."

Rachel gives a light yank of my braid, eliciting a half-hearted "ow" from me.

"I'd watch it if I were you," she teases, "Seeing as how you're in no position to mock me right now."

"Okay, hair-styling gives you a scary power trip. Noted."

She snickers and finishes with the French-braid, tying it off at the end with a small hair-tie. "_Ta-da!_" she sings, clapping her hands together. "All done, _Madame_."

I open my eyes and twist my upper torso around to see her reaction. Pumping my hands to either side of my face, I bat my eyelashes and say, "Well? What do you think?"

Rachel's already-smiling face brightens further. "Pretty as a peach!" she says, emphatically enough to make my heart lurch. "See for yourself."

I oblige, jumping up and turning to her mirror to check out the elegant French-braid. It makes me look innocent and lovely, if I do say so myself.

"Ooh, great job, Rach! Thank you!" I flop down beside her on the bed and tuck my legs up underneath me. I scooch close enough that my stuck-out knee presses against her thigh.

"No problem," she says. "Do you like it enough to want to wear it like that to school tomorrow?"

"Oh yeah; definitely."

Her grin turns proud. "Hey, if my career as a Broadway legend doesn't pan out, maybe I can become a famous hairdresser."

"Honey, there's no 'if' about it; a career of stardom and talent _will_ pan out for you." Unable to help myself, I scoot in even closer, my knee now completely overlapping her thigh, and angle my body toward hers.

Her smile softens. "You really believe in me, huh?" Her tone is gentle, wistful. Her hand rests flat atop my knee, and I wonder if it was a conscious move of hers or an absentminded one. I'm not complaining either way, of course.

"Um, _duh_," I tease, but my own voice has quieted. Our eyes lock, tender smiles sparking within them, and I feel my breath catch in my chest.

If this were a romantic-comedy movie, this would be the part where we kiss. The part where the guy _finally _gets the girl… Or, where the _girl_ finally gets the other girl, I should say. The moment where the underdog best friend rises victorious, a sweet and catchy song swelling in the background as the pair's lips come together as one, at long last.

But, of course, real life is not like a romantic-comedy movie. The best friend doesn't always get the girl, especially when the best friend is _also_ a girl. So, I'm not even all that disappointed (well, not _too_ much) when Rachel squeezes my knee in a friendly manner, widens her smile, and turns away to grab her cell phone.

For the two seconds her eyes are away from me, I let my expression fall in defeat. But I'm able to regain a convincing look of casual happiness just in time for her to aim her phone my way.

"Say cheese!" Rachel says, beaming as if _she's _the one about to have her picture taken.

"Why?" I jokingly turn away and cover my face with my hands.

"Because you look so cute that now I know what I want my new wallpaper to be!"

A cheesy grin steals up my face at that, no more prompting needed. She takes my picture, and I lean over, watching as she changes the background of her phone from a shot of Finn smiling his half-smile, to one of me smiling whole-heartedly, head angled a bit to the side so I could point at my braid.

"I'm replacing Finn," I say, trying not to sound too victorious or smug with this. "Aw, I feel so honored."

Rachel laughs and tosses her phone to the side. "Oh, you should. Whoever's picture I choose as my cell phone's background is rewarded with glory akin to a Nobel Peace Prize or a Tony Award."

I can't resist. "So, no glory at all then? Because, you know, there's really nothing special about a Tony Award."

The way Rachel's eyes cut toward me, you would think I had just punched her in the nose after insulting Barbra Streisand. Well, I guess joking about the unimportance of a Tony is even _worse _than that in her book.

"Kidding; kidding!" I laugh, holding up my hands.

"You better be," she glares, unable to hold it for long until her mouth quivers away into a little smile. She knocks her knuckles lightly against my arm for good measure before asking, "So, are you excited for tomorrow?"

"What's tomorrow? I know it's a Monday, which is generally the worst day of the school week…"

"I'm referring to the fact that, tomorrow, the prom court nominations will be announced! You'll get to find out if you're one of the most popular people in the school."

"Oh, honey," I let a luxurious smirk travel up my face and fire off a wink, "I don't need anything to assure me of _that_."

Rachel chuckles. "Okay then, Miss Popular Prissy Pants. We can't all have the inherent cool factor that you do."

I shrug and lean back on my elbows, emit an oh-so-casual sigh. "It's a gift…and a curse. I don't take the responsibility lightly, I assure you."

Rachel flops onto her stomach and wiggles closer to me, propping her elbows into the bed and resting her chin in her hands. Long, dark-chestnut hair cascades past her shoulders with the sudden movement; her amber-brown eyes sparkle, impossibly long eyelashes fluttering.

"Good to know," she says, a smile slowly spreading up her dimpled cheeks.

A stupid blush prickles up my neck; I yank my eyes away from hers and stare at the wall instead.

"Actually," she says, tone shifting into something a bit _too_ breezy, "I have something I've been meaning to ask you."

I turn my attention back to her and quirk an eyebrow. "Shoot."

"Okay, well…" She bites down on her lower lip for a moment, plumping it around her two front teeth.

God, it's like she's _trying_ to torture me right now. 'Operation: Kill Quinn with Cuteness' is going exceedingly well for her. All day, every day.

"Finn and I were going to go on a date this weekend, but I had to cancel because he wanted to schedule Saturday night, but I knew I had to get up early the next morning to get your dog back with you," Rachel says. "So, I told him we'd have to postpone, because you were spending the night with me. And, well… I guess, what I'm trying to ask is, would it be okay if I told Finn and Kurt that you're living with me now?"

I blink, taken aback, jaw dropping open. My heart hiccups to a brief stop. "Wait… You're not _seriously _asking if you can tell Finn and Kurt that my parents kicked me out, are you? What, you want to out me just because it would make it more convenient to date your boyfriend?" I can't keep away the angry disbelief from encompassing my words, nor do I even think I want to.

Rachel's eyes widen; she shakes her head back and forth a few fast, vigorous times. "No, no, no, Quinn! Of course not! I would simply tell them that your house is being fumigated or something like that. I don't like the idea of lying to them, but of course I wasn't even thinking of telling them why you're _actually _living with me.

"The whole point is that they just need to know that you _are _living with me," she continues, "because Finn keeps wondering why I'm choosing to spend time with you instead of him, and Kurt keeps getting jealous that I haven't been able to spend the night with him, or hang out with him and Blaine lately because I'm always hanging out with you."

My heart starts slowing down into its normal rhythm, relieved that she wasn't asking if she could tell Finn and Kurt my biggest secret. They are two of the _last_ people I would want to find out.

I'm silent for a moment as my mind reels. Something sharp and prickly itches under my skin. Something irritating and ugly, like…like bitterness or jealousy, or maybe a blend of both.

"I _guess_ you can tell them my house is being fumigated," I grumble. "Say that my parents are staying at my aunt's house, but she lives too far away for me to be able to drive to school from there."

I can't even look at Rachel, because I'm miserably wondering how this always happens. How, just when I think I mean a lot to her, she goes and brings up Finn in a way that reminds me he means more. The disappointment of this slices even deeper than when I thought we were about to kiss, only to be reminded that life isn't some fairy tale.

Or, if it is, mine is the kind with nothing but scaly dragons, cackling witches, unbreakable curses, and I'm locked up in a tower that I can never be rescued from because Prince Charming doesn't exist, and even if he did, it wouldn't matter because the fact that he's a _he _makes him inherently not my type.

"Look," Rachel says, something in her tone prompting me to stop staring at her wall and stare at her instead, "Finn is my boyfriend and Kurt is my best gay… Well, my best _male _gay" I can't help but to crack the tiniest of amused smiles at that "but _you _are my very best friend." Her eyes are so earnest, and her words are so matter-of-fact, that my smile takes it upon itself to grow. "And I wouldn't want to do anything that would make you uncomfortable, so if you don't want me to tell them you're staying with me indefinitely, then I won't, okay?"

She places her hand on top of mine, and I have a hard time swallowing for a moment at how close her face, and she squeezes her fingers over my knuckles, and just… _Ugh_. How can I ever say no to her?

"It's okay," I insist, "Just tell them the fumigation story. I don't mind. It's selfish of me to keep you all to myself all the time."

Rachel's cheeks flare pink – this lovely, delicate color; _eat your heart out, CoverGirl cosmetics _– and she throws her arms around my side and says in this crazy-adorable way, "No, no, be selfish! I like it when you're selfish! But there's enough of me to go around."

I laugh and give her a little shove. "Get offa me, Clingy McClingerson."

"Your nicknaming could use some work, but I shall oblige," she says, issuing a final squeeze around my waist before rolling to the opposite end of the bed. "Far enough from ya?"

I laugh again. "Nope, not even close. Try rolling to Antarctica, _then _we'll talk."

She emits a wild gasp. "I can't go to _An-tarc-ti-ca_, _Quuiiinnn!_ I would freeze into an ice sculpture, and then I wouldn't be able to perform on Broadway. I would think someone as supposedly smart as you would realize this."

"Oh, _please_, Rach. You would find a way to perform on Broadway, frozen or not. Your tenacity is as scary as it is admirable."

"I choose to focus on the compliment and ignore the insult."

"That's a good life motto. They should sell that on a T-shirt, or on coffee mugs. I would totally buy one."

"Yeah, well, _I _would buy _two _of them!"

I roll my eyes but chuckle. "Not everything's a competition."

"That could also be a life motto, but one of a loser, not a winner," Rachel says, rolling over and over toward me until her neck lands on my thigh. She gazes up at me, and from the grin flashing her teeth, I know she's joking.

We burst into laughter. But then Rachel's eyes fall onto the digital clock on her nightstand; she swings up into a sitting position. "It's ten-thirty already," she says. "If I want my proper beauty sleep, I need to go to bed soon. Here, let me take out your braid; I'll redo it for you in the morning."

"Okay." We move around until she's behind me; I feel her fingers unweaving my French-braid, quick but gentle, and when they reach my scalp, she digs around for a few glorious seconds of a massage. I almost moan at the sensation, warm tingles shooting from where she caresses me, relaxation descending over my muscles.

It's over too soon, and we're hugging and kissing each other on the cheek for a goodnight, and I'm prancing across the hall to my bedroom, the goofiest of smiles playing at my lips.

I can't help but to keep touching my cheek and thinking of the way her lips brushed them, or touching _my _lips and thinking of how they brushed her cheek.

Tonight, for the first time since getting here, I sleep with all the lights off. I cuddle with Tony, the stuffed lion, under my covers, replaying the day through my mind. Rescuing Buttercup and hanging out with my best friends and watching TV with the Berries and having Rachel play with my hair. Even thinking about my parents and wondering how they're dealing with Buttercup having "run away" makes me feel amused and validated and only a _teensy _but guilty.

Moonlight spills through the oval-shaped window, casting a silver glow at the end of my bed, and I close my eyes, for the first time in a long time able to drift right away into a dreamless sleep without a worry for what tomorrow will bring.

* * *

><p>On the way to English class the following morning, I notice a renewed swagger to my step, a fresh swing of confidence in my hips.<p>

A couple of groups of students even part around me like the Red Sea when Rachel and I pass by; it reminds me of back when I was queen of the school in sophomore year and the first part of last, with everyone cowering against their lockers or drooling with envy when I approached.

The wonderfulness of the weekend has really done a number on my self-esteem. I haven't felt so…_untouchable _in… well, in I can't even remember when. It doesn't hurt any that I'm looking all kinds of hot today, if I do say so myself.

Rachel French-braided my hair again today, and the way the locks are interwoven around one another really brings out all the natural shades – the golden parts, the almost-white parts, the darker blonde parts, all glimmering together like some sort of exotic snake.

My airy, white dress with a tiny floral print all over it, paired with white leggings and brown braided sandals, makes me feel ready to take on the world. And you know what? With Rachel walking close by my side, I just might try.

We enter English and take our seats together in the back. Brittany and Santana show up a few minutes later, sitting down just as the bell rings.

"Damn, Fabray," Santana says, looking me up and down with a jump of her eyebrows. "You're lookin' _good_."

"Yeah!" Brittany chirps. "It's like you had a facial made out of happiness; your eyes are all shiny, and your smile is like the sun."

I maybe melt a little bit at that; Brittany just has the best, uncanny way of describing things. "Aw, thanks, Britt. I'm just… I'm really happy. For the first time in a while."

Rachel must be listening in, because she says, "Well, I think happiness is your best look yet."

I turn to beam at her in this way that probably makes me look like a huge dork, but I don't even care. "Thanks, Rach."

She beams back, and this time I _do _melt, all through me like ice-cream on a hot summer's day.

But then Brittany says, "You look how I feel after San and I have sex" and Santana is half-scolding and half-laughing at her girlfriend's crassness, while I whip to face forward, yanking my eyes away from their journey of dropping to Rachel's breasts in her tight, black blouse.

And now a blush is creeping up my neck, and I can't stop the images that sprung up at that word 'sex,' of what Rachel would look like _without _that tight, black blouse, and… _damn you, Brittany!_

Thankfully, just as my peripheral vision catches Rachel leaning toward me, brow puckered as if she's about to inquire what's wrong, the PA system crackles to life above us.

"_Good morning, children_," Principal Figgins says in his monotonous, Indian accent, thick with his typical disinterest. "_I hope you are all having fun in your safe learning environments. As a friendly reminder, if you see that an abnormally large rat – or rat_sss _– has gotten loose, do not panic, or God forbid, try to wrestle it to the ground. Just come and get me, and I will get somebody else to deal with it_."

I have to look to Rachel at that; we exchange smiles of equal parts amusement and alarm before I turn away again.

"_Secondly, the prom court nominations have been tallied_," Figgins says, prompting Rachel to give my shoulder a quick squeeze. Even when her hand pulls away, I can still feel the ghost of its pressure, the sensation of fingers curling excitement and surety around me.

"_I would proceed with the girl choices_," he continues, "_but since last year the Young Feminists of America threatened a lawsuit because I said 'ladies first,' claiming that was unequal treatment of genders, I will not do that this time. Please, children, no more lawsuits; my hands are tied!_"

"Wanky," Santana whispers with a waggling brow. Brittany and I burst into giggles.

"_The prom king nominations are, in alphabetical order by last name…_" says Figgins, pausing dramatically, "_Samuel Evans…_"

I smile at that, though there's a trace of sadness weighing down the curve of my lips. In a different world, – or even in this one, if things had turned out much differently than the path of the last few months – Sam and I would still be dating, gearing up for prom and running together. He'd pick out a tie that matches my dress, and my mom would take a thousand pictures. The perfect, popular high school couple that everyone wished their own relationship was like.

My, how things change.

"_Finn Hudson…_" Figgins continues.

Rachel releases a little squeal; my insides shrivel around themselves as my fingernails cut into my palms.

"…_and Rick Nelson_," Figgins finishes.

"WHOO! YEAH!" Rick whoops it up, jumping to his feet and pumping his fists through the air. I roll my eyes so hard and so fast that I'm surprised they don't go shooting out and pelt his big stupid head.

Our teacher ignores him while most people in our class applaud and cheer… Except for my back row, including Santana who shouts, "Oh, sit down already, you imbecile!"

He flips a middle finger her way but sits down nonetheless.

"_Now for the ladies, because they are worthy of going second if they please_," Figgins says.

Rachel leaps a hand on top of mine closest to her, still balled into a fist from when Finn's name was announced. I turn to her excited expression and have to share her smile. "This is it!" she whispers, tone rising in pitch. "Let's see if you get it!"

I let my fist unravel beneath her hand, gently wrap our fingers together, and am so enthralled with our combined warmth, with the softness of her skin, that I almost tune-out Figgins completely when he says, mispronouncing my surname as usual, "_Quinn Fahh-bray…_"

Rachel squeals – is it just my hopeful imagination, or is this one even louder than the one for Finn? – and pulls me into a glorious, squishing side-hug that ends far too quickly for my liking.

The class bursts into whistles and applause for me; a full-on grin appears as everyone looks my way, smiling at me. Rachel, Santana, and Brittany holler and whoop louder than anyone. I look away at Rick's smarmy smirk and wink, determined not to let even his creepiness dampen this feeling of everyone celebrating on my behalf.

"…_Nancy Pettison…_" Figgins says. She isn't in our class, but I know who she is; she's the daughter of my pastor at church. Er, my _ex_-pastor at church. Still, she must have some friends in here, because there are some claps for her.

"_And, finally, … Santana Loh-pez,_" he finishes.

The cheers for Santana are almost as exuberant as the ones for me were, with Rachel, Brittany, and I leading the pack with our claps and whistles. Santana pretends to be modest, going so far as to even plant a hand over her heart and drop her mouth open, eyelashes fluttering in a faux-surprised, 'who, me?' way. I roll my eyes good-naturedly at her act, wondering if anyone is actually falling for it.

"_Good luck to all the nominees,_" Figgins says. "_Write-in ballots will not be tolerated this year, unlike last year, when the plucky Kurt Hummel accepted the women's tiara with trademark grace and sassiness despite the unprecedented trickery of the situation. Children, you must either vote for the proper nominees or do not vote at all! Thank you and have a good day_."

The PA system crackles again, the static fading out. Not even a second later, the classroom bursts into conversation.

"Looks like it's you and me, Q," Santana says with a playful smirk.

"And Nancy," I remind her.

She gives me a '_puh-leeze_' snort and roll of her eyes. "Yeah. Right. No one's going to vote for her when the other options are two of the members of the Unholy Trinity. It's you or me for queen, and I say, let the best woman win." She holds out her hand.

"Oh, don't worry," I say, accepting the brief but firm handshake, "She will – which means _I_ should start writing my acceptance speech soon."

"Oh, it is _so _on," Santana says, tone joking but eyes coming alive with that fierce spark of competition.

"Let the games begin."

* * *

><p>At lunchtime, Rachel intercepts me on my way to my table.<p>

"Come sit with me!" she says, slipping her elbow through mine with such fluidity, as if she's been doing it forever.

Ever since last week when Kurt grilled me about my love life and I had to endure Rachel and Finn flirting, I haven't returned back to her table. But right now, I'm still equipped with this sense of invincibility. Everything has been going so _fantastically _lately, and of course I would love any excuse to have extra time around Rachel. And, who knows? Maybe Finn stayed home from school today or something.

"Okay," I smile down at her, stomach fluttering at the way our hips graze together with each step, and walk with her to her lunch table. When I get there, I shoot a quick, apologetic little wave to my table, where Santana, Brittany, and Puck wave back, looking more than a little annoyed with me ditching them.

Before I even have time to entertain any notion of guilt over this, however, I'm slipping into the same seat next to Rachel that I took last time. The gang's all here – Sam, Kurt, Blaine, and Finn.

"Hey, guys," I greet chirpily, flashing them all a winsome smile. "Congratulations on making prom court," I say to Finn.

He gives me a half-smile and scratches behind his ear. I think my uncharacteristic display of girlish joy is confusing him. Or maybe he's a little gassy. It's hard to tell with him sometimes. "Thanks, Quinn; congrats to you, too."

"And congrats to you, Sam," I say, letting my eyes swivel away from Finn and land in front of me, latching onto Sam's.

But as soon as my hazel meets his denim-blue, I feel everything inside of me just _stop _for a charged second. The way Sam's staring at me… It's like he's glimpsing right _into _me, inspecting my very soul, scrutinizing every crack and crevice he finds there.

"Thanks, Quinn," he says, tone neutral but stare so heavy that I can _feel _it pressing down onto my shoulders, squeezing my heart to a momentary standstill. "Congrats to you, as well."

My mouth parts, eyes widen and blink rapidly, questioning words crawling up my throat but skittering back down before they can form on my tongue.

Thankfully, Blaine chooses this instant to talk, yanking me from my blind panic and allowing my gaze to mercifully land on his instead.

"I'm just proud of Kurt for getting a special little shout-out in the announcements," Blaine says, nudging his boyfriend in the side and shooting him a playful smile.

Kurt groans with half-exasperation and half-amusement. "Yeah, being reminded of the humiliating debacle of last year's prom really makes me feel like I'm part of McKinley's elite." Despite his words, I can tell from the sparkle in his eyes when he looks at Blaine that he's healed from the scars of that public embarrassment; being in love has a way of making past grievances not seem so dark, I guess.

"Well, I feel very special-by-association right now," Rachel boasts, straightening her posture with great importance. "My boyfriend and best friend, both on the prom court!"

Kurt clears his throat pointedly. "Your _best _friend, huh?"

Rachel's eyes widen for a moment, a look of alarm at her slip-up, before she quickly adds, "I mean, Quinn is my best _girl _friend, of course, Kurt."

For the briefest of seconds, I let my body react to that: My eyes close, mouth spreads high into my cheekbones, as I let those words fill me up, swirling warmth through my veins. Her 'girl friend.'

It's funny, because there was a time when her calling me that made me feel panicked and disgusted. There was a time when I wanted to scratch out that last word altogether from our lexicon. But now, all I want is for those two words to be merged as one, to be the ultimate moniker of describing our relationship.

Now, 'girl-space-friend' made into 'girlfriend' is all I want for us.

I try my best to look natural, staring down at my PB&J and marveling again at how much can happen in just a few months.

* * *

><p>After lunch, Rachel and Finn accompany me to my locker.<p>

Well, more accurately, Rachel accompanies me and Finn tags along without being asked.

"I just had the perfect idea," Rachel says, her tone just breezy enough to tip me off that she didn't _just_ have this 'perfect' idea.

I quirk a prompting eyebrow her way and spin the code into my combination lock.

"We-_ell_, since you, Quinn, are single, and you, Finn, are dating me who is not on the ballot, I think it would be a great idea if you campaigned together!"

I'm grateful that my locker is open by this point, head sticking inside to inspect my textbooks; that means the grossed-out expression to cross my face is hidden from her and Finn.

After making sure my nose is no longer scrunched and my mouth isn't puckered to the side, I pull back to look at a hopeful and excited Rachel and a hesitantly smiling Finn.

"You sure you'd be okay with this?" he asks Rach, with a bizarre amount of concern, as if she suggested she'd go out onto the frontlines for him rather than just let him run with his ex-girlfriend for prom. Well, I suppose in Finn's book, they're close to the same.

"Of course!" Rachel directs her sunny grin to me now. "What do you say?"

"Um… Well… I was kind of planning on running solo. Going stag is the new power couple." I shrug and try to appear apologetic, even though I'm more so _annoyed_.

Why is Rachel trying to pair me up with _Finn _of all people? And why is she acting like, in doing so, she's giving me such a special gift that I should be tearing up with appreciation for?

"You're going with a _deer?_" Finn asks me, mouth dropping open and eyes bugging.

I just stare at him and shake my head slowly. Rachel furrows her brow, as if wondering how she should proceed with her boyfriend's stupidity in a way that won't point _out _his stupidity, when the smell of too much cologne and the sound of obnoxious laughter enter our area.

"Hey, Quinn."

I turn to find Rick the Dick and his Dickettes standing around us in a semi-circle. They completely ignore Rachel and Finn, smirking at me instead as if I'm the prime steak they just ordered for dinner.

_Awesome!_ Just what I need right now. Even _more _stupidity.

I heave the loudest and most irritated sigh of my life. "What do you want, Rick?"

He chuckles as if I've just said the most charming thing in the world. "So, I'm sure you're aware that you and I are both nominees for prom king and queen. Thought about who you're going to run with yet?"

I scratch away itches on my chin, my arm, my elbow – it's like he gives me physical hives now or something, _ugh_. I have the sudden urge to take a long, hot shower.

Dread curls deep inside my stomach like a flea-ridden cat; I have a feeling I know _exactly _where this line of questioning is going. As opposed to the idea as I was just fifteen seconds ago, now I realize what I have to do to ensure Rick leaves me alone with this. "Yeah, Finn and I are going to run together."

"What? But you just said – _owww!_"

I pull my elbow away from where it just jabbed Finn's side and raise my eyebrows at Rick, as if daring him to continue with why ever he came over here in the first place.

"Why would you do that?" Rick asks, face screwing up with disgust and confusion. "That's, like, a total loser move." The Dickettes nod in agreement. "You should run with me instead."

"Hey!" Finn snaps.

Rachel crosses her arms over her chests and glares at Rick.

"The only kind of running I would do with you, Rick, would be the kind that involves me running far, far away," I say, softening my already sweet-sounding voice into prime Sugary Bitch Mode.

Rachel and Finn laugh at my insult, which makes a triumphant smile spread across my face.

Rick continues his slimy spiel as if he wasn't just royally dissed. "You and I, sweetcakes? We'd be unbeatable; people are afraid of my fiery fists and unkempt good looks, and you're the super-hot-but-surprisingly-also-smart eye-candy – we're the perfect match. You know, _especially_ in a hotel room after prom, where we can get our _victory celebration_ on, if ya know what I mean." He leers at my breasts and waggles his eyebrows, tongue practically flopping from his mouth.

I fold my arms over my chest, shoot him a ferocious glare, and open my mouth to cut him a new one, but Rachel beats me to it.

"That's it! _Enough!_ I can't take any more of your sexist, disgusting babble and repulsive stares," she huffs, flashing him the most infuriated expression I have ever seen her wear. "Quinn is obviously light-years out of your league, – as is any decent girl, really – so how about you stop making a fool of yourself _for once_ and turn around before things get personal, _buddy?_" She stabs a threatening finger toward him, her lips borderline snarling.

Finn stares at Rachel, surprise and a scared kind of awe puckering his entire face, as if she just burst into Skittles.

Seeing Rachel get so defensive over me makes an extremely happy and superior smirk fly across my face.

My smug gaze drifts back to Rick: the shock all over his face is slipping off, replaced by something raw and loathsome that he directs right at Rachel.

"You're just jealous because no one would ever hit on _you,_" he tells her, voice dripping with malice. "Well, besides your lumpy oaf of a boyfriend. Face it, Rachel: you're puny, have a big nose, and nonexistent boobs. It's sad, really, how much you're begging for my attention, or _any_ attention from a real man. Maybe in another lifetime, troll."

Rick's friends burst into rude, hearty snickers; Rick himself grins wolfishly, posture straightening with pride at their reaction.

But it's Rachel I'm focusing on: her arms are stiff at her sides, hands balled into fists; her stare is steely, set in stone, eyes narrowed; her chest rises and falls rapidly, nostrils flaring… But the worst part is her lower lip, which gives the slightest but most telling of trembles… And how her eyes are beginning to glitter with suppressed tears….

Finn licks his lips, eyes jumping wildly from Rachel to Rick, Rachel to Rick; his mouth flounders, as if wanting to say something but at a loss for words.

I swivel to the Dick and his Dickettes again, watching as they smirk and snicker and act as complete and total assholes. I feel something in me _snap_, right in half, splitting me apart with pure, unadulterated _rage_.

All the times Rick hit on me, harassed me both mentally and sexually. All the times he looked smug or cocky or superior. Every little thing he's ever done that has gotten under my skin, everything that has made me dread seeing him – it all flares up to a boiling point in this moment. Because, mess with me? Fine, I can handle it. But mess with my best friend? You just threw the gauntlet down, pal.

_No one_ is allowed to make Rachel feel that way; _no one_ is allowed to take away her precious smile from me, _especially_ not some immature tool with a horrible hairdo.

And so, unthinkingly, acting on the ire that fills me up like curling plumes of smoke, my hand lashes out, connecting in a solid _smack_ with the side of Rick's sneering mouth. Literally slapping the smirk right off his face.

There's the sound of Rachel's sharp intake of breath, and then…silence.

All the snickering stops; a deadly hush falls over the group. Rick's jaw drops; he blinks heavily and repeatedly, cradling the side of his face that I just slapped. My handprint left behind a bright red mark, blazing against his blotchy skin.

The palm of my hand smarts with the intensity of a thousand beestings; I try not to wince against the scorching pain of having slapped him so hard.

I step closer to Rachel's side, slide my non-injured hand into hers, and straighten my posture as I stare at Rick's stunned expression, all blinking eyes and gaping mouth.

"Don't talk to her like that," I say, my voice calm and controlled, even though I'm shaking on the inside. I hope they don't notice the brief quiver that works through my knees. "She's worth more than a million of you jerks."

_I can't believe I did that; I can't believe I did that; I CAN'T BELIEVE I DID THAT!_

I swallow heavily, choke on nothing, and again hope no one notices the tremor in my otherwise stone-faced façade.

Rachel's hand tightens around mine.

The darkest and most thunderous of storm clouds rolls across Rick's face; it's the raw, loathsome look he directed at Rachel earlier, only magnified by a hundred. The pure hatred hardening every line of his face, darkening his eyes like coal, makes an involuntary shudder work across my shoulders.

He takes a step forward, head tilted downward to stare me directly in my eyes. "You are _so_ going to pay for that," he says, spitting out the next word with particular venom, "_bitch_."

He slams his fist into my open locker, right next to my head; I'm not proud to admit it, but the sound of the door banging closed, combined with the fastness of his angry hand, makes me openly flinch and do a little jump.

"Hey!" Finn says, stepping in front of me and Rachel. "Leave them alone!"

Rick just rolls his eyes at him and starts walking away with his friends. "This isn't finished," he calls over his shoulder. "You can count on that, Fabray. I won't stop until I get you back and make your life a living hell."

Rachel, Finn, and I watch as Rick and his minions strut down the hallway and turn the corner, mercifully disappearing from view.

Once they're gone, we all let out a collective breath.

And though I don't want to admit it, there's something in his threat – the way it's loaded with an ample amount of scorn and determination – that makes a terrible chill of foreboding slip down my spine.

* * *

><p>After school, I meet Rachel at her locker.<p>

She locks it up, slings her bag over her shoulder, and falls into step beside me down the hall.

"Quinn?" Her tone is soft, maybe a bit shy.

"Yeah?"

"I never got to thank you properly. You know, for standing up for me? No one's ever slapped a guy for me before."

I look down at her and see that she's smiling both warmly and humorously. We giggle; the memory of Rick's blotchy, shocked face and the handprint blazing on his cheek _is _pretty funny, mainly since he deserved it so damn much.

"No problem; there was no way I was going to let him get away with being so rude to you," I say, looking forward again. I hope she doesn't notice the blush rising in my cheeks. I clear my throat and add: "Trust me, it's been a long time coming; I should have slapped him the first time he ever just said hello to me, and maybe then he wouldn't pursue me all the time."

"Well, I don't think you'll have to worry about his harassment anymore," she says, tone slipping into worry. "He looked pretty furious with you."

A chill crosses down my spine at that. "Nah, I'm sure he's harmless," I say as we round the corner. "'All talk, no action' sounds like his kind of motto."

"To be honest, I'm glad that he finds me unattractive," she says, "because – "

"He's an idiot!" I blurt, making sure my eyes stay trained forward and willing away another blush. "You are _gorgeous, _okay? He's just, like…he's an idiot!" _Yeah, you just said that; real smooth._

Rachel links her arm through mine and pulls me right against her side. Our eyes meet, and I see the sweet affection and amusement shining in hers. "Thank you," she says, a hint of laughter on her smiling lips, "But I was saying that I'm _glad_ he finds me unattractive, because I know from how he acts around you that he's creepy and perverted to the girls who catch his eye."

"Yeah, well _I'd _like to catch his eye, all right," I grumble, "with a _hook!_"

I'm being more or less serious, but Rachel laughs. "I'm very grateful to have someone like you on my side, Quinn," she says, flashing me a smile so sincere that I can't help but return it. Even despite memories of Rick and his obnoxiousness, I can always find myself smiling around this girl.

We reach the choir room and enter together but part ways when we reach the risers; I head to the top to sit with Brittany, Santana, and Puck, while Rachel sits in the front with Mercedes, Sam, and Finn.

She looks behind her shoulder at me after we've both taken our seats, and the regretful little pout she tosses my way is adorable enough to almost make me not resent the distance between us. That was, _almost_.

After swapping greetings with Britt, San, and Puck, I motion at all of them to lean further toward me so they can hear my lowered volume: "You guys aren't going to believe what happened after lunch."

"Oh, you mean after you _ditched _us at lunch?" Santana purses her lips.

"You guys could have joined us," I point out, waving away her irritation with my hand before proceeding. "_Anyway_, Rick came over to me, Rachel, and Finn at my locker, right?"

"I don't know," Brittany says eagerly, "You're the one telling the story!"

"So, he was being an asshole – no surprise there," I say, "but then when Rachel told him to stop harassing me, he said these horrible and insulting things to her."

"Like what?" Puck asks, hot fury surfacing in his eyes. I know that look – like he's ready for a fight.

I smile at him gently and pat his knee. "Calm down; I took care of it."

"How?" Santana asks, cocking an eyebrow and failing miserably to appear uninterested.

Now it's _my _turn to appear as nonchalant as possible, but of course I don't succeed. "Oh, you know…" I peer down at my fingernails, buff them against my front. "I slapped him."

"_What?_"

"Oh my God; are you serious?"

"Way to go, Q!"

I try to act indignant and shush them when our fellow Glee Clubbers start staring over at us with curious glances, but I can't keep from chuckling at their varying reactions.

"It's not that big of a deal," I insist, even though, okay, maybe it _kind of _is.

"'Not that big of a deal'?" Santana echoes incredulously. "Uhm, no, it sort of _is _a _huge_ fucking deal!"

"Did you at least bust his lip?" Puck asks. "Please tell me you at least busted his lip! God, I've wanted to punch that asshole for _years_; I can't believe you're the one who finally got to smack his sorry ass."

"Sorry, Puck, but I don't think his lip is busted," I say.

Brittany giggles. "Ew! You didn't smack his _actual _ass, did you, Quinn?"

I release a loud guffaw that attracts even more curios glances. "Oh my God! _Ewww!_ _No!_ I slapped his face," I say, as quietly as I can while I'm trying not to burst into more laughter at the grotesque thought of my hand coming anywhere _near_ Rick's ass.

"Well, to be fair, it can be hard to tell the difference with him," Santana says, and now we're _all _laughing.

Mr. Schuester enters the room and calls everybody to order. I exchange one last grin dripping of leftover giggles with Santana before directing my attention to our teacher.

"Okay, guys, I think we should start off by giving a round of applause to the prom court nominees in here," Mr. Schue says with a smile of fatherly pride. "Out of the six contenders, _four _of them are part of our family! Sam, Finn, Quinn, and Santana – why don't you all stand?"

The four of us oblige, getting to our feet as everyone else cheers, catcalls, and practically claps their hands off. I give a little curtsy while Santana drops all pretenses of humbleness in order to cock a hand on her hip and toss her hair back using her neck.

We sit back down after the applause has petered away. Rachel twists around to shoot me a little wink; I wink back at her and giggle when she pretends to swoon. My heart floats in my chest, and a burst of lightheadedness makes me grateful I'm not still standing.

"To start things off, Brittany has something she'd like to say," Mr. Schue announces, beckoning Brittany forth with an elaborate swoop of his arm.

"You do?" I ask the girl in question, tilting back my neck as she gives me a coy smile and prances to the front of the room. I turn to Santana. "She _does?_"

Santana shrugs. "First I've heard about it."

Brittany rocks back-and-forth on her heels for a few seconds, ponytail bouncing with the movement. "As you all know, prom is coming up in three weeks," she says, taking on a still, serious posture and sweeping her emphatic blue eyes around the room.

She pulls a piece of paper from the pocket of her Cheerios letterman jacket. "This is for Santana," she says, eyes finding her girlfriend's, whose face bursts into a pleasantly surprised grin. "Would you please come up here?"

Santana nods enthusiastically before jumping to her feet. I smack her butt when she starts bounding down the risers and call to her, "Go get her, tiger!"

Everyone starts clapping, or saying "_awwww!_", or giggling with anticipation.

"Do you know about this?" I ask Puck.

"Don't look at me," he shrugs.

I turn my attention back to Brittany and Santana, who stand facing each other.

"Okay," Brittany clears her throat and stares down at the piece of paper within her hands. "'The Top Five Reasons Why You, Santana, Should Go to Prom with Me, Brittany' by Brittany Susan Pierce," she reads, nerves starting to creep into her voice.

I lean forward with my elbows on my knees, chin resting in my hands, and can't stop a goofy grin from taking over my entire face. This is just way too cute; Brittany's bashfulness, the way Santana is smiling at her so affectionately – all of it! It's like watching two kittens romping in the snow together.

"Reason Number Five: I'm, like, totally hot, and you're totally hot, so it just makes sense," Brittany says, more and more confidence strengthening her tone with each word. "Reason Number Four: You'll get to watch me do my awesome dance moves all night, and we can slow-dance together to the sappy songs that you pretend not to like but really make you get all melt-y."

I swear I can see Santana blush from here, and I _know_ I can see the adoration overflowing from her radiant smile.

"Reason Number Three," Brittany continues, looking up from her paper to lock eyes with Santana instead, "I will give you too many sweet lady kisses to count."

Santana emits this girlish giggle and sways back-and -forth.

"Reason Number Two," Brittany says, just barely glancing down at the paper this time, "It'll make me _super _happy, and you know how I get when I'm _super_ happy." She raises her eyebrows meaningfully, smile becoming more of a playful smirk.

"Get some!" Puck hollers; I whack him on the arm and cut him a warning glare.

"And Reason Number One," Brittany says, stuffing the paper back into her pocket so she can take Santana's hands within her own. "We love each other more than Lord Tubbington loves cheese, which means no dance or prom or _anything_ can ever be special for me if you're not there by my side."

"So, Santana," she says, taking a deep breath. "Will you go to prom with me?"

Santana beams brighter than the sun, throws her arms around Brittany's neck, and says, "You didn't even have to ask." Brittany beams back, flings her own arms around Santana's shoulders, and they slide together, sharing a chaste but sweet kiss to the uproarious applause of all us Glee Clubbers.

Mr. Schuester claps heartily and steps up beside the two girls, who are now embracing tightly and swaying slowly from side-to-side. At the sight of their evident love and loyalty, I feel something uncomfortably close to sorrow or even _jealousy_ tugging at my heartstrings.

Without asking my permission first, my eyes jump to the back of Rachel's head; a heavy coldness presses further down on my chest, wishing that she were sitting beside me. I notice that Finn's arm is encircling around her chair, his hand surely coming to a stop within her lap, and it makes me feel sick.

I look back to Brittany and Santana, needing to bask in the secondhand warmth of their romance again, but they're already walking back up the risers with their pinkies linked and grins on their faces.

"That was very sweet, Brittany," Mr. Schue says, "and definitely put everybody in a joyful spirit. It also reminds me to share with you guys some good news – we don't have to perform at the prom this year!"

Now _that_ cheers me up considerably, but not enough to join in with everybody else's whooping. Last year, we had to act as the prom's entertainment, and it was such a drag to have to make sure we followed a strict schedule of performance times.

"This year, the prom committee is just going to play a pre-arranged iPod playlist or something," Mr. Schue explains. "Anyway, I figured you would like to know that you can take it easy and just _enjoy _this year's prom."

Santana and Brittany have already retaken their seats by this point; I turn to them and whisper, "That was so sweet, you guys!"

"Thanks," Brittany grins, "I just wrote from the heart."

Santana pecks a kiss to her cheek. "It was _perfect_; thanks, Britt."

"Of course, San," she says.

I try to tune back into Mr. Schuester, but it's no use: my eyes keep sneaking to Rachel, and to Finn's long arm winding around her chair.

For the rest of the lesson, I daydream of a future where my arm could encircle around her waist, and she could peck kisses to my cheek, and the heavy coldness in my chest would be but a distant memory.

* * *

><p>After rehearsal, I walk down the risers to meet Rachel by the grand piano, where she's talking with Finn.<p>

"Congrats on the prom queen nomination," Artie tells me when I pass by him.

I stop to smile and squeeze his shoulder. "Thanks! I voted for you for prom king, by the way. I wish you would have gotten onto the ballot; Lord knows you're a million times better than _Rick_."

Artie grins. "Wow, thank you, Quinn! That means a lot. And yeah, I think even an actual snake is better than him."

I chuckle, nod, give him another smile, and continue my trek over to Rachel. Just as I reach her, Santana, Brittany, and Puck come up beside me.

Rachel and Finn swivel to face the freshly assembled group. "Hey, guys," Rachel beams. "Brittany, your speech was so heart-warming." She presses a hand over said organ and tilts her head to the side. "It made me get tears in my eyes."

Brittany grins from ear-to-ear. "Aw, thanks, Rach! I was just being honest, but I'm glad it made you happy. Anything to spread the love, right?"

"Hey," Santana says with mock-offense, "You better not be giving your love away to anyone but me!"

Brittany appeases her with another kiss to the cheek. "So, Q and San, are we heading over to Rachel's so we can start on your prom campaign? I'm still the manager to both of you, right?"

"Yeah, totally," Santana says.

"Sounds good to me," I say. "Is that okay, Rach?"

"Oh, yeah," she says, "that sounds like a lot of fun! Finn, do you want to come over, too? Considering you and Quinn are running together, I think you should be there."

"Wait… Hold up," Santana sticks a hand into the air, palm-out. She arches her brow at me. "You mean to tell me that you're _not_ campaigning solo?"

"Change of plans," I shrug, deciding it best not to embarrass Finn and explain that I only got roped into running with him because I was trying to get _out _of running with Rick.

"Then who am _I _going to run with?" she huffs. "You and Finn are popular enough to make for some actual competition up in here." She swivels around, as if her popularity radar is beeping, and stares at Sam, who is standing awkwardly outside our group by himself as if he's waiting for someone.

"Hey, Trouty Mouth, you're my campaign partner," she says.

Sam rolls his eyes at her bossiness. "No, I'm not. Nancy already asked me, and I told her 'yes.'"

"Then go and tell her '_no_,'" Santana snaps.

"Yeah, I'm not going to do that."

Santana huffs dramatically at him before whipping back to face our group. "Whatever. I'm better _without _some subpar partner, anyway."

"Okay then," Rachel says after a brief bout of awkward silence, "We're going to my house now? Ooh, we can take pictures for the campaign posters in my backyard!"

"Sounds great," I smile at her enthusiasm.

"I'm coming, too," Puck insists.

"Good," Finn tosses him a polite smile and adds jokingly, "You can save me from all these girls."

Puck returns the smile before twisting around to ask Sam, "Yo, bro, you wanna join us? You can even invite that Nancy chick if you wanna. I'm sure Rachel won't mind."

"No, I don't mind at all!" Rachel says. Of course she doesn't; all of these people, all of these _friends_, coming over to her place _voluntarily? _This is probably like Christmas morning to her. Well, actually, she's Jewish, so never mind, but you get the idea.

There was a time, just last year even, where I wouldn't be caught dead within a ten-mile-radius of her place. The same could be said of Santana, and of Puck if you go back two years. It's funny how much can change, how dramatically different the future can turn out than what you've always expected.

It's safe to say that this aspect of my life is a _good_ kind of different. No, make that a _great _different.

"Thanks, man," Sam says, "but I have to get home to watch my little siblings soon." He clears his throat, and when he speaks again, his tone has transformed into the kind of pointed nonchalance that makes me flashback to earlier in the cafeteria, to the intense way he was staring into my eyes. "Actually, I was hoping to talk to Quinn right now…_privately_."

My face warms as all eyes jump to me; I shrug as carelessly as I can manage, unable to look at anyone. "Yeah; sure; fine."

"In that case, we'll wait for you down the hall, okay?" Rachel says, offering an encouraging smile. I know she can sense that I'm nervous, but she probably just thinks it's because I think I'm in for an awkward conversation with an ex-boyfriend. I can only hope it turns out to be that simple.

"Okay." I let my lips quirk up at the edges, but the weight of unease keeps them from manifesting into a full smile.

As Rachel, Finn, Puck, Santana, and Brittany exit the choir room, Sam and I move toward one another. We're the only two people remaining.

I force myself to make eye-contact with him but immediately regret doing so. He's staring at me in that knowing way again, just like back at lunch. My stomach swirls and heart does a clumsy cartwheel.

"Soooo…" I blow out a long breath through puffed-out cheeks. "What's new with you, Sam?" I cringe at how lame and forced it sounds even to my own ears.

He takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his floppy blonde hair. "I guess I should just cut to the chase, huh?"

I shrug, not knowing what to say. It's been so long since I've talked to Sam, really _talked _to him, especially in a one-on-one basis. I can only stand here and wait for him to continue.

"Look, Quinn," he says, lowering his voice, even though no one else is around, "I know." He stares at me so point-blank, so definitively, that of course my stomach bottoms-out and my heart stops for a second.

When my heartbeat resumes, it picks up in overtime. I bark a shaky laugh. "Um, _excuse me?_ You know _what?_" _Calm down, Quinn; he can't know _that._ There's no way he somehow knows what you _think _he might know_.

"Look, are you really going to make me say it?" he asks.

"Say what?" I demand, feeling a nervous energy fill my system, buzzing through my very core. I wrap my arms around my middle, needing to feel _some _sort of comfort right now.

He takes another deep breath, this one seeming to pull all the way down from his toes. "I know that you're gay."

For several long, screaming seconds of silence, his words hang in the air.

I know that my eyes are widening, and my arms are tightening further around me, and my mouth is rolling into itself and against my front teeth. I know these things, but I don't _feel_ them at first, because for these long seconds, all I am is numb. '_You're gay, you're gay, you're gay' _echoes in my ears, reverberates inside my skull.

Sam bites down on his lower lip, waiting for me to speak first.

Then, the most ridiculous thing happens.

And that is to say, nothing happens at all.

I don't burst into tears. I don't go into a panic attack. I don't faint. I don't start screaming at him.

I just stare at him and, after a moment, a lightness seeps through me. My heart calms down, my stomach relaxes, and my arms stop squeezing. I am…relieved.

And that's such a bizarre reaction – to feel _relief _right now as the most potent of any other emotion, that a loud laugh escapes my throat.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, it's just…" I smile softly to myself. "I'm actually relieved that you found out. I've wanted to tell you that secret for a while now – especially when I broke-up with you. And now that you know… Well, I'm glad that you do."

Sam, however, doesn't look like he's going to be returning my smile anytime soon. A scowl darkens his countenance as his hands shove deep into his jean pockets. "Quinn, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Excuse me?"

"You have your parents worried sick over you! You're being reckless, and stupid, and – "

I interrupt him before he can go any furthering; my blood is reaching the boiling point by now. "What the hell do _you_ think you're _talking about?_"

Sam takes a steadying breath. "I'm talking about how you ran away from home."

This time my loud laugh has much more to do with disbelief than relief. "Oh my God, are you kidding me?"

"Um…no?" His brow knits together for the briefest moment of confusion.

"Look, Sam," I huff, "I don't know what you _think_ you know, but whatever it is, it's _wrong._ So, back up a bit, first explain how you even found out that I'm gay in the first place, and then proceed." I plant my hands on my hips.

"Yesterday, after church, your parents came over to my house. I was going to the kitchen to get a soda, but I stopped outside when I heard them talking about you. They told my parents how you've been acting really strangely and, like, rebelling against them lately. They said that on Friday, you told them you were gay and wanted to leave home so you wouldn't have to follow their rules. When they tried to reason with you, you yelled at them, grabbed your bags, and stormed out of the house. They haven't seen you since. … Does any of this ring a bell?" He loads that last question with biting sarcasm.

I can only gape at him, open-mouthed like an idiot, practically fuming smoke right from my ears. Is this seriously what my parents are telling people? And, worst of all, is this what people actually _believe? _I shake my head back and forth a few times, hands balling into tight fists, and try to calm my accelerating heart.

"Wow," I finally manage to say. "Funny, because that's not how _I _remember it."

Sam folds his arms over his chest, cocks an eyebrow. "Okay, then how do _you _remember it? I'm all ears."

"Two weeks ago, I walked into my house after school and found my dad reading through all my diaries," I say, trying hard to sound as neutral as possible, which proves difficult when there's a lump hardening in my throat. "So, that's how he found out my secret. Then, he screamed at me, kicked me out of the house, and told me I wasn't welcome anymore. It was pretty much the most traumatic experience of my life, but you know what, Sam? You go ahead and think that I'm some petty little bitch who likes 'rebelling'" I throw in some nasty finger-quotes "against my parents and would _choose _to run away from home or whatever, because obviously that's what you _want_ to think."

Sam's face softens; his lips part as he blinks a few quick times. "Oh my God… Wow… Quinn, that's…" He pressed a hand to his forehead, closes his eyes for a second. "I'm so sorry." When his hand peels away and lids peeled back open, I find his eyes boring into mine and shining with sympathy.

I shrug and swallow heavily. "It's whatever."

"No," he shakes his head, "It's really not. Your parents are some tools, huh?"

I shrug again.

"So, um… Where are you staying now? Are you sleeping in your car or something?"

"No, I've been living with Rachel. _Her _parents are actually really cool; they're letting me stay with them for as long as I need."

"Oh, okay," Sam nods, licks his lips. "This explains why you haven't been at church in a long time. And how come your parents have been all weird for the last few weeks. Do you, uh, want me to, like, confront them for you? Or at least tell my parents the truth?"

I shake my head vigorously, nose scrunching up at his suggestion. "No, please, don't. My parents don't deserve to know that I'm doing okay and staying at Rachel's; they deserve to worry, though who knows if they actually _are _worried or not. And as for your parents… No, just don't. Not yet, anyway."

Sam nods again, this awkward bobbing of his neck. "Okay."

We just stare at each other for perhaps a heartbeat longer than necessary.

I open my mouth to break the silence, but he beats me to it. "So, um… I actually have some bad news."

"You mean news even worse than what you just told me?" I chuckle mirthlessly.

He gives a rueful half-smile. "Yeah, actually. Um… Your dog ran away from home on Sunday. Your mom called mine when she got back from our place and told her. She was really upset; apparently your dad left the back gate unlocked by accident."

I bite down on my lower lip to suppress a smug, amused smirk at my parents' expense. "Oh really now?"

"Yeah… Why don't you look upset?"

"Promise not to tell?"

"Of course."

"Well, I kind of broke into my own house and took my dog back to Rachel's with me."

Sam's eyes widen. He looks shocked, and then he's smiling. "That's actually kind of badass of you."

"I would say more than 'kind of,' but thanks." We share a small smile, humor flowing between us.

"Does anyone else know?" he asks. "About you liking girls, I mean."

Guilt creeps into my bones, ensnares my senses. I can tell he's not going to be too happy about this. "Yeah, just a few people – Rachel, Puck, Santana, and Brittany. But that's all," I quickly add in reassurance, hating how his eyes are growing wounded.

"You mean to tell me that you thought you could trust and confide in _them,_ including none other than _Puck,_ but you couldn't ever bring yourself to tell _me _the truth?" he asks, mouth flipped into a frown. "I know we're obviously not dating anymore, but we've always been close friends, Quinn. At least, I _thought_ we were."

"Look, Sam, I'm sorry, but it felt too complicated for me to tell you," I step forward and rest a hand to his upper arm, hoping my eyes convey the remorse I feel. "We have such a history, and I just… The whole time I was dating you, I felt guilty about who I was. And considering we go to the same church, which is filled with homophobic members, I just wasn't sure how you would react."

Sam lifts his hand up to mine and pulls it away from his arm; I'm hurt at the action at first, until he wraps his fingers around mine, clinging tight, and holds my hand within his. I smile gently at the feeling of his large palm swallowing mine, strong and sure as always.

"But you _know _I'm not homophobic," he says. "I would have embraced you with open-arms and made sure you never felt like you aren't worthy of anything just because you like girls or whatever." He squeezes my hand once, transferring such loyalty and acceptance in the flex of his fingers, before dropping mine back to my side.

His words put this beautiful ache in my heart; tears fill my eyes, but I blink them away before they can fall. I launch forward into his arms, snuggling deep into his chest.

It takes an awkward moment for me to realize that he's not hugging me back.

I pull away from him, shuffle backward, and gaze imploringly at him. "What's wrong?" The amount of pain ripping into his eyes makes the ache in my chest turn into something far less beautiful.

The last time I saw him look so wounded was back when…back when I broke-up with him. My breath catches in my throat.

"Quinn, I don't think you understand," he says slowly, tone raw and vulnerable. "Just because I'm not going to shun you for being gay, that doesn't mean anything's changed between us. You really hurt me, and I still can't look at you without feeling betrayed."

"I know, and I am _so _sorry, really I – "

"No." Sam shakes his head, holds up a hand. "Let me talk first."

I nod and close my mouth, lips pressing tightly together.

"You _really_ hurt me, Quinn. All those months we were dating, you were just leading me on. You had no intention of ever staying long-term with me, did you? No matter how deep in denial you were over your sexuality. You kissed me all the time, and God, I must have been an idiot for never knowing. I mean, you even tried to have _sex _with me! You were willing to let me lose my virginity to someone who could never even _like _me, let alone _love _me in that way."

As he talks, the blueness of his eyes intensifies, glittering with suppressed tears. My chin starts to tremble, feeling both his pain and my own guilt crushing onto my chest.

"I just don't get why you had to lie to me and use me just to make yourself feel better," he continues, sniffling a little. "I was always one-hundred-percent honest with you, sometimes even _too _honest. I mean…" He sucks in a rattling breath, and with it, I prepare for the weight of his next words to fall onto my shoulders.

"I was in love with you, Quinn," he says, and now tears are prickling _my _eyes. "A part of me still _does _love with you. And you told me you love me back. But then you dumped me with no real explanation, and then I find out – not even from _you_, but from our parents' conversation – that there is no way you ever could have been in love with me."

My tears trickle over, warm and fast and itching down my flushed skin. "_Sam_." It's a plea and a whisper and an apology, so many things wrapped into one utterance. I hold out my hand, about to press it to his arm again, but he takes a step back.

"I want to forgive you, Quinn. I want to at least go back to being friends with you, because I really do miss hanging out with you. But not now – not when the pain and information is still so new to me."

He walks over to his chair, grabs his backpack, and slings one strap over a shoulder. I watch as he heads to the door, a trembling hand rising to swipe away my tears. "Sam, wait!"

He stops, turns halfway around; his face is bone-weary, as if he's aged ten years in as many minutes.

"Are we going to be okay?" I ask, lower lip quivering violently.

His lips pull back into the tiniest of smiles, so small that I wonder if it's just a trick of the light. "I hope so," he says, so quietly that I wonder if he's speaking to me or to himself. "Eventually."

His hand is grabbing the doorknob, about to exit, when he stops and turns again. "If your parents told my parents, they may start telling other people in our congregation. So, be prepared if more of your parents' friends start finding out. Just… Be careful, okay?"

I nod and watch him walk out the door, clanging shut behind him with a sound too final for my liking.


	30. Chapter 30

Hello to all my lovely readers! :D So, I have to apologize first to everyone who I replied to their reviews of the last chapter, and I said "I should have the next chapter out later today or tomorrow!" ... And now it's like, two or three weeks later, and I'm just now posting the chapter. *Wah, waahhh sound effect* :-/ lol

I totally thought I would, I promise I wasn't pulling a Ryan Murphy and just trolling. This chapter kept getting longer, and things kept happening, and thus the publication date was pushed back. The original version of this chapter is over 15,000 words, so I decided to split it in half. This is part one; since I just finished part two tonight, I can have that up tomorrow if you guys want. :)

Real quick, to the user FaberbrittanaFanForever123 and the guest Wicked Girl, thank you guys both so much for your review! I couldn't thank you privately because your Private Messaging is disabled, Faberbrittana, and to Wicked Girl, you have no idea how flattered and proud I am to have made you ship Faberry despite being an initial Finchel shipper. xD Welcome to the Faberry family!

All right, so here's the new chapter. I'm excited about the upcoming events, since I've had the main thing coming up (in the next chapter) since I started this story back in February! *Basks in a moment of nostalgia* I hope you guys continue to enjoy, and remember, reviews are always appreciated and help motivate me. :D Thanks for reading!

And Happy Thanksgiving!

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER THIRTY<strong>

The campaign photo shoot would probably have been more fun if it didn't come right after my talk with Sam.

I manage to fake my way through it, though there are a lot of genuine moments of happiness and laughter. I even find that I don't mind spending time with Finn as much as I thought I would; since Rachel is busy helping Brittany take the pictures and set up the shots, she's too busy to have time to flirt with him.

This means that he and I end up grouped together throughout; there's one shot we have to take where we're peering around opposite ends of a big tree, as if playing peek-a-boo with the camera (it was Brittany's idea) and we shared a good laugh about how silly we felt.

And when Santana told him to watch out for Buttercup because there was a likely chance that all dogs would mistake him for "a lumpy tree," he didn't even get offended…well, not that much, anyway.

It's just before dinnertime now; Hiram and Leroy have gotten home, while the campaign brigade has already left.

As Rachel and I set the table, she breaks the comfortable silence we lapsed into when we started. "Quinn?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you okay? You seemed a little…_off,_ earlier."

I finish folding a cloth napkin and set it next to a plate, looking up at her with a sigh. "I don't know… Something happened that I want to talk to you about, but I was going to wait until later tonight."

Rachel ignores the silverware in her hands, attention focused solely on me. Her eyebrows knit together in concern, mouth tugging downward. "What is it?"

"It's about my talk with Sam." Saying his name brings me back to standing before him; I feel all his vulnerability and accusation searing through me again, burning holes into my conscience.

"Yeah, I was going to ask you about that, but I didn't want to pry," Rachel says, moistening her lips. "What happened?"

I inhale deeply and exhale loudly before explaining everything to her: what he overheard my parents telling his parents, how he knows I'm living with her now, how he doesn't have a problem with me being gay but _does _have a problem with how I dated him for several months and made him believe a lie.

I feel like some of the weight of guilt is lifted off my shoulders as I talk to her, drawing strength and comfort from the tenderness of her eyes and the concern creasing into the edges of her mouth.

When I'm done, Rachel shakes her head and gives a little laugh of disbelief. "Wow." She shakes her head again and emits an even louder laugh this time.

"What's so funny?" I ask, smiling curiously.

"Nothing," she says, before breaking into a smile, small in length but large in affection. "It's just… Only you could have a day that starts with you being elected to the prom court and ends with your ex-boyfriend finding out your biggest secret by _eavesdropping _on his parents no less, _and_ you get to slap your arch-enemy in the middle of it all. I mean, I thought _I _was meant for dramatics, but I must say, your life has gotten mine beat by a landslide lately."

I allow myself a long, rich guffaw at that, basking in the feeling of finding humor in all the craziness. _You forgot to add 'pining after best friend while campaigning with her boyfriend for prom court_,' I think, which just makes me laugh harder.

"I must have pissed somebody off _royally _in a past life," I say. "God, I was probably some Russian mafia member or something, from all the terrible luck I keep getting!"

Rachel giggles at that. "Hmm, I wouldn't say _Russian_ mafia; with your bone structure, you look more like a Greek goddess… Oh my God!" She snaps her fingers in a display of a faux-epiphany. "That's it! You must have Aphrodite jealous of you because you're prettier than her _and _a nicer person, and that's making her curse all these theatrics into your life."

I grin widely, surely revealing all my back molars; I can feel my cheeks tinting a _spectacular_ shade of pink. "Rachel, you've got to stop," I say, staring down at the white lacy tablecloth.

Bashfully, I move my fingers up to my hairline as if to brush a stray lock of hair behind my ear when I remember it's styled into a French-braid; I settle for stroking my temple instead.

"Stop what?" she asks, and the genuine innocence in her tone is just so crazy. _How _can she not know the affect she has on me? _How_ can she not know that with every casual but grandiose compliment she bestows onto me, she makes my heart both swell and break?

I force myself to look back up at her, lock eye-contact. There's so much _warmth_ crackling in those big brown depths; I feel it transfer straight through me, shooting electric sparks to my fingertips and toes.

All my words fly away as I stare into her eyes.

"Stop _what_, Quinn?" she prods gently, arching her brow.

"Oh, um…" Quickly, I go back to arranging the table setting. "You know, you've got to stop fluffing my ego; you're going to give me a big head. And a disproportionately large head on a smaller body is not the kind of image I need to send to the shallow prom voters."

"Sorry, but no can do," Rachel says, a lilt to her voice. "I just speak the truth."

I look up at her, my lips rolling inward to ward off a giant smile. _Good, _I think. _Never stop; I don't want you to ever stop._ "Okay, but if I turn into a big conceited jerk, you'll know who to blame."

"All right, if that happens, I'll take the fall for it with a characteristic display of grace and dignity," she says, flipping her hair over one shoulder in a jokingly regal manner.

I'm giggling at her antics when Mr. Berry^Squared walk into the kitchen, arms loaded with serving dishes.

"Thanks for setting the table, girls," Leroy says. "Dinner's all ready!"

We sit down (I end up across from Rachel), make our plates, and dig in. The first few minutes of dinner are comprised of us struggling not to stuff our faces and outright moan at the deliciousness of the food. Rachel and I compliment her dads profusely, who act humble despite their extremely proud grins.

I'm just finishing taking a sip of water from my glass when Leroy says, "So, how was school today, ladies?"

"Good," Rachel says quickly. "Quinn has some exciting news to share!"

Next to Rachel, Leroy's expectant eyes jump my way, and to my right, my peripheral vision catches Hiram doing to same.

"I got nominated as prom queen," I say, throwing my arms and shoulders into a modest shrug and breaking out in a grin when they both clap and whistle for me. I stare down at my plate, flushing with pleasure.

"That's wonderful!" Hiram says. "You'll definitely make a lovely and gracious queen, Quinn."

Leroy chuckles, the sound like softly rolling thunder. "'Queen Quinn.' Try saying that five times fast."

So, of course, we all do: the sound of our overlapping 'Queen's and 'Quinn's makes us all burst into a chorus of guffaws. I clutch my belly as the laughter vibrates from within it, spreading joy through every part of my body. Hearing Leroy try to master the tongue-twister, getting all confused but with such a deep and authoritative voice, is my undoing.

My eyes meet Rachel's and stay there for a lingering moment as we beam at each other, giggles calming down after a few more moments.

"Anything else interesting happen today, besides the fact that we now have royalty in our midst?" Leroy asks.

"Dad_dy!_" Rachel huffs. "You've always had royalty in your midst; aren't I your little princess?"

"Of course, Babygirl." They smile at each other so lovingly that I feel a pang of sorrow and envy, resonating deep within my heart.

It seems like an eternity since I last talked to my father. It seems like even longer since back when talking to him actually made me smile like that. I stare down at my plate, nibbling on my lip and allowing myself just a minute to think about my parents; just a minute to remember them, to remember _us_, as a family.

Dad's way of turning the unfunniest joke into the funniest, because his dorky chortle is just so contagious that you find yourself laughing with him anyway; Mom's insistence that we always eat dinner as a family and spend at least one night a week watching a movie together, and she would always try to convince Dad to let me pick the movie for once.

"No hot gossip to report?" Hiram asks, knife cutting into his okra and words cutting into my reverie.

I blink away my memories and maybe just a bit of moisture. "Well, there was an incident with this guy named Rick," I say, clearing the lump from my throat.

"Oh, really? And what happened there?" asks Leroy.

I'm so busy looking at my plate to eat my food that at first I don't notice Rachel's subtle but rather violently terse back-and-forth shakes of her head. When I peer up at her and catch the panic and disapproval all over her face, I try to backtrack.

"Oh, um, nothing," I say.

Hiram laughs. "Wow, that _is _hot gossip. 'Nothing,' you say? Leroy, call the paper and tell them we've got their front page news right here."

I hope my chuckle doesn't sound as forced to them as it does to me. "No, no, okay, um, he was just..."

"He's a prom king nominee," Rachel intervenes, her attempt at nonchalance much better than mine. "And he's going to be some stiff competition for Finn."

"Oh, you mean Finn's nominated, too?" Hiram asks, and maybe it's just my imagination, but I think I detect the slightest bit of annoyance in his tone.

It's a far cry from the pride and adoration from when he discovered _I _made prom court; maybe it makes me a bad person to smirk to myself at this. Whatever, everyone deserves to be a little bad once in a while.

"Of course, Papa," Rachel says with a playful roll of her eyes. "He's the star of the football team and Glee's co-captain. Granted, I'm not naïve enough to think that that latter attribute contributes to his popularity, but still. Actually, Quinn has some more news on that front, don't you?"

I fight away an irritated sigh when her meaning sinks in. "Yeah, I'm campaigning with Finn," I say with a tight smile.

"Well, good luck to you both," Leroy says sincerely.

"Thanks."

The rest of dinner is filled mostly with talk about Hiram and Leroy's job as interior decorators. I find the conversation to be interesting, dotted here and there with funny anecdotes about nightmare clients and a fiasco of a mix-up one time involving differing shades of paint.

After helping Rachel wash and dry the dishes, we head upstairs to her bedroom. Once inside, I close the door behind me and lean against it, eyeing her with a curiosity that borderlines on suspicion.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asks.

"I'm just wondering why you didn't want me to tell your dads about what _really_ happened with Rick today."

Rachel sighs deeply. "I'd rather not get into it."

I frown. "Oh, come on, Rach! You know you can tell me anything."

She shakes her head. "No, I don't mean with you; I mean I don't want to get into it with my_ dads_."

My eyebrows pull downwards. "Why not? I thought you shared everything with them."

She shoves her hands through her hairline, distracting me for just a moment with how the glossy tendrils bounce voluminously back into place. "Look, I love my dads _so _much, and I know they love me a ridiculous amount as well. That means there are some parts of my life that are better off _not_ cluing them into."

It begins to dawn on me. "Like people who are mean to you?"

"Exactly."

"So… You mean to tell me that your dads are none-the-wiser to all the tormenting you've been through in high school?" I cross my arms over my chest and chew at the corner of my mouth.

Rachel nods and gives a one-shoulder shrug at the same time, resulting in this strange, unsynchronized bobbing all over.

"Rachel…" I lick my lips slowly, unsure how to proceed. This is so awkward, considering there was a time not all that long ago when _I _was one of her biggest tormenters. It feels more than a little hypocritical to give her advice on this. "I really think you should tell your dads when someone is bullying you. I know the harassment has gone away a lot this year, considering no one in Glee even gets Slushied anymore unless they do something _tremendously _dorky or whatever, but still."

"Look, I'm an only child, okay?" Rachel huffs defensively. "My dads freak-out into this crazy protection mode if I tell them that someone even just _looks _at me funny. I used to tattle on all the people who picked on me in elementary school, and it made my dads track down the kids' parents, which in turn made _everybody_ ignore me because they were afraid of me tattling on them for even the little stuff.

"Then, in junior high," she continues, "Apparently I hadn't learned my lesson, because I told them that people laughed at my clothes and laughed at how I always participated so actively in class, and _that_ made them actually come into the school and follow me around for a whole day of classes, giving death-glares to anyone who so much as even coughed in my presence.

"So, yeah," she finishes oh-so-eloquently, tossing her arms into the air, "It's just not worth the trouble to get them worried over my tormenters, especially when – as you just said – I don't even have any this year."

"Wow," I blink, dumbfounded. "Well, how did you explain coming home soaked with frozen corn syrup for the past three years?"

"I always kept at least two spare changes of clothes in my locker at all times. If the Slushie stains were too disastrous to come out in the laundry, I would just throw away the ruined outfit and tell them I'd donated it to charity instead."

My stomach churns, a heaviness sinking to the bottom. "Well, that explains a lot," I say, staring down at my manicure. "Like how come your parents don't hate my guts."

"Why would my parents hate your guts?" Rachel asks, and her tone is filled with so much genuine confusion that I peel my eyes away from my nails in order to gauge her reaction. Her brow is furrowed, lips puckered slightly, head tilted to the side.

I stare at her in utter disbelief. "Rachel! I sort of made your life a living hell for three years, remember? I laughed when Slushies were thrown on you, called you awful names, and refused any offer of friendship you made. Honestly, I don't understand how _you _don't still hate my guts." If the tremor of self-loathing that cuts through those last words isn't bad enough, of course my lower lip just _has _to jut out into a pathetic little pout, too.

Rachel's mouth falls open; when she closes it, it transforms into a frown. She steps toward me, closing the short gap between us, her hands pressing onto my arms still folded over my chest.

She is so close to me, gazing upward into my eyes, with hers gleaming so passionately; I forget how to breathe. It doesn't help matters any that she slips her fingertips down my forearms in this tantalizingly gentle manner, puckering my flesh with goosebumps along the way.

Her fingers stop once they latch onto my hands, which I'm all too willing to let her pull away from my chest and hold tightly in the inches between our bodies.

"That's all water under the bridge," she says, the intoxicating blend of softness and firmness to her words matching the grip of her fingers around mine. "You have _got_ to forgive yourself for those things, Quinn, because I've forgiven you for them long ago. You're an entirely different person now."

She shakes her head at herself and says with the smallest but most genuine of smiles, "No, it's not even that you're a different person _now_; it's that you've always been wonderful, but used to you were too blind to even see who you truly are."

"But your dads," I say, not much louder than a whisper. "When I first came to your house, they said that they knew all about me. You didn't mention _one _bad thing when you talked about me to them?" I purse my lips.

A cross between sadness and disbelief crosses her face. "Why can't you see how amazing you are?"

I shrug, cheeks burning. "I don't know," I say, so quietly that I wonder if she even hears me.

Rachel ticks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "One of these days, you're going to wake up and see yourself the way I see you. And then you'll realize just how much you have to offer."

Her words ensconce my heart, providing the most wonderful sensation. I feel stronger and happier and _better_ in this instant, with the warmth of her words radiating straight to where my fingers graze the side of hers.

A smile curls high into my cheeks; I feel my eyes glittering with joy. "I'm going to hug you now."

That trademark, cheesy grin of hers bursts across her face; she emits a scandalized laugh. "Hey! That's my line!"

"Then don't mind if I borrow it from you," I say, extracting my hands from hers so I can encircle my arms around her waist and yank her against me. The distance between us was too torturous; I just _have_ to feel her against me, feel that steady heartbeat thumping from her chest to mine.

She wraps her arms around my neck, wrists locking together behind my head, and cozies her cheek into my shoulder. The warm breath of her giggles peppers against my throat, tickling a path of goosebumps that doesn't end until it reaches my toes.

My eyes squeeze shut as my heart squeezes so tight, I fear it may pop.

If I thought standing so close to her without embracing had been torturous, it's nothing compared to how I feel now that I'm actually holding her and she's clinging to me, our grasp so tight and unyielding.

Somehow, she feels even farther away than before.

Yes, I'd rather have something than nothing, but 'something' just doesn't feel like enough with her. I want everything, every part of Rachel, every smile, and hugs, and kisses that aren't just on the cheek.

I catch a whiff of the familiar lavender-vanilla shampoo still lingering on her hair, and then the hug is ending far too soon for my liking (I would only be content with 'forever'), and she's pulling away and bounding across the room.

"Okay, we should get started on our homework now," she chirps merrily, grabbing her backpack from its spot on the floor and hauling it onto her bed.

She sits down on the edge and pats the area next to her. "Come on, silly! Don't just stand there. Chop, chop." She claps her hands twice, jerking me from my stupor.

I go to my room to get my homework, bringing it with me to sprawl out on the bed with her. Rachel spends the next thirty minutes studying for a math test while I find myself studying the number of times she sighs with frustration or twirls a lock of hair around her forefinger, brow scrunched in concentration.

If there were a test on Rachel Berry, I would pass with flying colors.

"Remind me again why we have to be here so early?" I whine, sliding out of the front passenger's side of Rachel's car and using my foot to shut the door behind me, perhaps a bit more forcefully than needed.

It's seven fifty-five a.m. the next morning, a little over thirty minutes before our first class starts. There are only a few other cars in the parking lot. I had to get up half an hour earlier than normal, which meant forcing myself out of an awesome dream about…well, about me and Rachel, one that involved a lot of bare skin touching and, to quote Brittany's prom proposal to Santana, "too many sweet lady kisses to count."

So, yeah, saying I'm a bit grumpy at the development of the morning is an understatement

"Because Blaine texted everyone in Glee last night, requesting our presence at the courtyard today thirty minutes before school," Rachel reminds me as we fall into step together across the parking lot. "And the last time I checked, you're a part of Glee Club, which means you shouldn't ignore such a request from your teammate."

"_And_," she adds, "I bought you a coffee on the way here, so there really shouldn't be any complaints from you, Fabray." She shoots me this adorable, faux-scolding pout. "Don't look a free gift horse in the mouth and all that good stuff."

I zip up my long, red-and-black-checkered jacket with one hand, warding away the early morning chill. In my other hand, I hold the to-go cup of coffee from The Lima Bean that Rachel speaks of; I take a large sip of it and make a show of going "_ahhh!_" at its deliciousness.

"And I appreciate said coffee, but the fact remains that not everyone can be a bright ball of sunshine at the crack of damn dawn like you." I toss her a teasing smile and bump my hip into hers.

She laughs. "Hey, watch it! You're going to make me spill my hemp latte all over my dress!"

"The fact that you ordered a hemp latte in the first place means I _should_ spill it all over your dress."

"What's wrong with hemp?"

"Nothing… if you're a hipster," I joke. "Then again, you _are_ vegan, so I rest my case."

Rachel utters a half-amused, half-offended noise. "I was a vegan before it was considered a '_hipster_' lifestyle, thank you very much."

"So you were vegan before it was cool?"

"Precisely!"

"Sounds exactly like something a hipster would say."

"There's no winning with you!" She huffs in exasperation but is unable to fight away a humor-filled grin when I stick my tongue out at her oh-so-maturely.

By this point, we've crossed the parking lot and are entering the courtyard. There are only about two dozen people milling around, sitting at tables, or lounging on the vast stone steps.

We spot our group standing at the bottom of the stairs and head over to them. Surprisingly, everyone's here already; well, besides Santana and Brittany, but we all know they have Cheerios practice before school.

"Hello, everyone," Rachel greets. Really, her tone is _way _too perky, grin stretching ridiculously wide. I roll my eyes and smile to myself, just a tiny bit; nope, she isn't adorable at all. Not even a smidge.

"Hey," I say, nodding rather awkwardly as all eyes jump from Rachel to me. When my gaze meets Sam's, he offers a meager half-smile before returning to his conversation with Mercedes. I try not to let the rejection bother me too much.

Finn and Kurt slide over to us – well, slide over to _Rachel_, to be more precise.

"Good morning," Finn says, hands stuffed in his jean pockets.

"Good morning indeed!" Rachel chirps, tilting her neck far back to take in the clear sky and buttery sun. At this angle, all that's visible of her face is that glorious nose of hers and those straight pearly whites radiating into a cheeky grin. "It makes me want to burst into song!"

"Please don't," Kurt says, dryly enough that I find myself giggling. He quirks an eyebrow at me, corners of his lips giving up halfway into what could've actually been a friendly smile. I guess we're still taking baby steps around each other.

As Rachel swings her neck back into its regular position, I look to Finn, expecting to share an amused grin with him over Rachel's antics, but he's staring off at the football field, watching the Cheerios practice with dopey appreciation in his eyes.

My face morphs into bitter disbelief as I watch him stand right in front of his _girlfriend_ and click into his own little world. Does he not know how lucky he has it? If Rachel were _my_ girlfriend, you can be damn sure my attention wouldn't stray just because some flip-y miniskirts and pom-poms came into view.

"Yo, Kurtsie," Puck says, popping up and rudely wedging himself between me and Rach. I hope the irritation I feel at this development isn't stamped all over my face. "Why did your boyfriend ask us to get here by eight, and it's eight o'clock now and the little bow-tied dude is nowhere to be found?"

"I don't know, actually," Kurt says with a dainty shrug. "He told me it's some surprise he's been working on."

Puck snatches Rachel's latte, eliciting an indignant "_hey!_" from her. "Don't mind if I do," he says, swinging the drink to his lips.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," I try to warn him, but it's too late: he's already taking a gulp…and promptly shoving it back into Rachel's hands as he bends at the waists, making noises of disgust and sticking his tongue rapidly in-and-out of his mouth as if trying to flick away the flavor.

I roll my eyes at his theatrics and step around him so I'm standing next to Rachel again. She shakes her head at Puck, nose crinkled in disapproval.

"God, Rach, what the hell _was _that shit?" Puck demands, straightening his posture but still wearing a grossed-out scowl. "It tasted like sweaty ass, balls, and armpit hair."

"Oh my God," I say, mouth dropping at his crassness (even though I should be used to it by now, really). I let my eyebrows skyrocket as a dry, suspicious snigger leaves my next breath. "And how would you know what those taste like, _hmmm?_"

Finn and Kurt snicker at this while Puck fixes me with a pointed 'oh-ha-ha-_ha_' look.

"That's what you get for stealing my hot beverage without asking!" Rachel scolds.

"Who the fuck says things like 'hot beverage'?" he mocks in return.

"Well-educated people, that's whom!" she snaps.

"More like well-_snobby _people."

"Oh, can it, Puckerman! Don't take your anger at the dislike of my drink out on _me_, when _I _am the victim here who had her latte contaminated by your germs and – " Her brown eyes flash to pure amber, voice sharpening into a furious high-pitch. She's really working herself into a lather, and despite how cute she is when she gets all mad and huffy, she's starting to cause a scene.

I press a hand to her arm and shake my head slowly, hoping my gentle eye-contact will help calm her. "Just ignore him," I whisper.

She opens her mouth to protest but seems to think better of it, lips clamping shut so hard that the edges puff out. She throws out a single terse nod, eyes cutting one last time toward Puck, and finally lets a small but grateful smile manifest toward me.

The sun shines down atop my head, dripping my shadows to stripe bars of alternating light and darkness over Rachel's face. Her eyes are encased within one of the rings of sunlight, and their irises glitter so brilliantly – pinwheels of honey flashing through darkest of brown – that my breath hitches.

But it's the sweet affection pouring out of her eyes and straight into mine that makes my stomach swarm with butterflies as my heart pounds in my throat.

"It's five after eight now," Puck whines.

I jerk myself out of my daze, staring forward as I bring my hazelnut coffee to my lips and freeze, unable to take a sip. For from my peripheral vision, I see Rachel's eyes still trained on me, running over the length of my profile one last time, before she turns away. Only when her gaze is no longer directed my way do I find my breath returning to my lungs and my heart slowing down.

"Jeez, what are you? The time keeper?" Kurt huffs to Puck. "He'll get here when he gets here, all right?"

As if on cue, the sound of many synchronized footsteps fills the air as the marching band appears at the top of the stairs…led by none other than the 'little bow-tied dude' himself.

Funny enough, his outfit is devoid of the titular accessory; Blaine wears a white button-down with pink pinstripes all over it, red suspenders, too-tight jeans, and red shoes. He reminds me of a human Valentine's card, especially with the love-struck look in his eyes that can be seen clearly even from down here.

"Hello to all my fellow students of McKinley," he says into his cordless, hands-free microphone headset. His voice amplifies across the courtyard, making everyone stop what they're doing so they can watch him.

There's a low murmur that ripples along the crowd, half-excitement but also half-annoyance.

Blaine's courtyard performances aren't exactly rare, and though some people get a kick out of them, there are others who would rather just kick _him_ for popping up time and time again to burst into song-and-dance. Of course the Glee Club fall into the former category, though I can't say that goes for the majority of the people here.

Blaine's intense stare lands on Kurt, whose eyes are wide and clasped hands are resting against the bottom of a goofy grin.

"Kurt Hummel," he says, stretching out his entire arm and rigid forefinger right at the well-coiffed boy. "This one goes out to you!"

Kurt shakes his head in awe, laughing with the sweetest kind of embarrassment.

Blaine claps his hands above his head, yells "hit it!", and the marching band launches into a peppy, familiar instrument arrangement. Only when Blaine starts singing do I recognize the song as "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" by WHAM. The tune is infectious and fun, and – as always – Blaine knocks each dance step, each lyric, each belting of the high-notes, out of the ballpark.

His soulful bravado rings clear across the courtyard, soaring all the way into the sky where it bursts the clouds apart to make more sunshine spill from the heavens. I find it hard to control my grin or to try and stop singing quietly along to the parts I know.

Us Glee Clubbers start clapping along, swaying our hips to the beat, dancing in our small group amongst ourselves. Mercedes pushes Kurt forward, into the spotlight, and he throws her a scolding look that holds no actual negativity whatsoever.

For the entirety of the tune, Blaine and Kurt keep their gazes locked together (well, except for the parts where Blaine's eyes clamp shut for a moment as the emotion of the song swells visibly within him). When it starts drawing to an end, Blaine takes his dancing rhythmically down the steps, though the marching band stays behind on the top platform.

By the time he reaches the bottom and is standing right in front of a fiercely blushing (and incredibly _smiley_) Kurt and is joining their hands together, the song is almost over. Blaine nails the last line, voice drawing softer until the final word flies in a beautiful arc from his throat.

His performance is a definite success: well over half of the crowd bursts into applause and whistles, the loudest of all coming from my Glee crew. Soon enough, the applause dies away as people return to what they were doing before Blaine showed up, though the overall atmosphere is significantly livelier.

Rachel and I exchange giddy grins, high on the feeling of watching such an excellent performance by our friend. It makes me flashback to when she and I sang our mash-up; somehow, it feels both like years ago and as if it happened yesterday.

Blaine turns off his microphone headset and takes it off, draping it around his neck. He looks like he wants to speak, but he has to wait until his winded panting has calmed down into a more normal breathing pattern.

He moistens his lips, eyes never leaving his cheekily grinning boyfriend's, and clears his throat. "Kurt."

Kurt bats his eyelashes quickly and bashfully; I think he may actually faint from how hard he's swooning.

"Would you make me the luckiest guy at school and be my date to prom?" Blaine asks, eyes widening with unabashed hope.

Kurt rolls his own with ample affection. "Of course, silly!" he says, words shaking with giggles. "Yes!"

A grin so cheesy that it could pass for actual cheddar explodes across the length of Blaine's face, making his honey-green eyes twinkle from within. "He said yes!" he cheers to our circle of Glee members, fists pumping in the air. It's so adorable that I start giggling to myself, overcome with secondhand happiness for him.

We all clap and whoop as Kurt and Blaine dive into a tight, rocking hug that almost sends them crashing into Tina and Mike.

I turn to Rachel, still riding on a wave of jubilance. "Can you believe our friends? First Brittany's speech to Santana, and now Blaine's public serenade to Kurt – could they _be _any cheesier?"

Rachel throws her head back and laughs. "Oh my God, _I know!_ They're all too much!" She swivels toward Finn, who raises his eyebrows at her expectant smile. "So, Finn, when are _you_ going to present your significant other with an incredibly romantic prom proposal?"

He openly blanches, mouth floundering before twisting back in an uncomfortable excuse for a smile. "Um… What?"

Rachel laughs again, though it's not as carefree and light as the one before. "Oh, come on! Surely you have something up your sleeve planned for little ol' me."

Finn stares at her, his dark brown eyes flashing with pure panic. "Uhhh… I kind of thought since we're boyfriend-and-girlfriend, that means I don't have to ask you to prom. It's kind of, like, one of the perks of steadily dating someone, right?"

Rachel's grin droops at the edges and dies out altogether from her eyes. "Oh. Right. Of course we're automatically going to prom together."

Finn smiles this smile of such relief and cluelessness that I want to whack him upside the head.

"I'm going to head to my locker now," Rachel says, staring at the latte cup she twists around and around in her hands. "Care to join me… _Quinn?_" She gives me a pointed smile and none-too-subtly jerks her head toward Finn, as if to signal that she wants to get away from him. For such a talented, destined-for-Broadway actress, she can sometimes put it on a little thicker than needed.

"Yeah, sure," I say, walking with her out of the courtyard. But not before sneaking one last peek at Finn's confused face and wondering how a guy like that ever scored a girl like Rachel.

* * *

><p>"You guys missed it," I say, sitting down at my regular lunch table.<p>

"Missed what?" Santana asks with a curious bounce of her eyebrows.

"Blaine sang 'Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go' to Kurt before school in the courtyard, and then afterward, he asked him to prom."

"Awww, that's so sweet!" Brittany coos. "I wish we could've seen it."

"Considering Blaine sings at least two solos per day, I think we'll get another chance to watch him perform," says Santana with a roll of her eyes. I guess she's one of those 'would rather kick _him_' type of people when it comes to Blaine's penchant for breaking out into song.

"I think it's crazy how Coach Sylvester is still making you guys practice every morning before school," Puck says. "Isn't your competition season over already?"

"Yeah, but you know Sue," says Brittany. "She loves inventing new ways to torture us."

"Today she made us do over a _hundred_ suicide runs," Santana says. "She just stood there, barking insults into her megaphone, as if _she _could actually complete any of the work-outs she puts us through."

"Do you miss being a Cheerio?" Puck asks me.

"I miss the team aspect of it – like getting to be the boss of everybody." I wink at San and Britt. "And I really do miss the thrill of performing such complicated routines. But do I miss the grueling exercises and Coach Sylvester's overall reign of pompous terror? No, I do not."

"Speaking of 'reign of pompous terror,'" Santana says, "Where's Berry?"

I give her a look. "Okay, first of all, that's rude and uncalled for, Santana. And second of all, it's not like we're attached at the hip; she's eating with her friends, and I'm eating with mine."

Santana oh-so-maturely mimics my scolding demeanor, lacing hers with annoyance. "Okay, _first of all,_ I was _joking_, Q; this never leaves our table, but I don't…completely hate her anymore." She flicks her eyes to the ceiling when she says this, as if to hide the sincerity associated with those words (why Santana hates to display her humanity is beyond me), cluing me in that she cares more about Rachel than just not 'completely hating her.'

"And second of all, color me surprised to see that you chose to sit with us instead of with her for once," she finishes, swinging a pointed expression right at me.

My sigh comes out with less irritation and more remorse than I had planned. "I'm sorry for ditching you guys yesterday, but it could have been avoided if you had just _joined_ _us _over at her table."

Santana snorts a non-verbal 'as if.'

"So, how did Rick react when he saw you today?" Puck asks, changing the subject rather randomly. "You have first period with him, right?"

"Yeah, unfortunately," I say, face screwing with distaste. "Actually, he wasn't too bad; he glared at me when I walked in, but other than that, he kept to himself and didn't bother me at all… I could get used to it." I smirk at the glorious thought of Rick _finally _leaving me alone and never hitting on me again.

"I was hoping he would provoke you just so I could see you slap him," Santana says.

"No, thanks," I say. "I wouldn't want to put my poor hand through the horror of having to touch his face again."

"I'm still jealous that you got to pop that obnoxious mouth of his," Puck says. "What I wouldn't give to be able to punch his mullet-head just once…."

"Hey now," Brittany frowns. "We're better than this; let's stop talking about violence."

Santana sighs in acquiescence while Puck rolls his eyes, though he drops the topic without protest.

Brittany sits up straighter and folds her hands in front of her on the table. "Okay, so, I have some of the campaign posters already made; I'll finish them tonight, and then tomorrow morning we can all meet to hang them around the school. And then tomorrow _after _school, I'll help Santana campaign by herself while Quinn and Finn campaign together. Sound good?"

"Sounds _brilliant_," Santana smiles sweetly.

"Yeah, great job thinking this all out, Britt," I say, able to grin genuinely at her despite the fact that I'm not exactly sure how it'll be having to campaign with _Finn _of all people.

I guess I'll just have to wait and see.

* * *

><p>"Tell me, Quinn," Rachel says after school, lying in the grass of her backyard. "Am I overreacting about this?"<p>

I sit cross-legged across from her, running my fingers through Buttercup's soft fur. "Overreacting about _what?_" I smile a little in amusement. We were just talking about how beautiful and sunny the day is, so unless she thinks she's being too effusive with her compliments to the scenery, then she's referring to something unspoken.

"You know, why I've been pouty all day," she says.

My brow draws together. "To be honest, Rach, I didn't think you were acting 'pouty' today."

"I guess I kept it better hidden than I'd assumed." She stares up at the fluffy white clouds.

"Okay, enough with the cryptic," I say, raising my eyebrows in a prompting manner. "What's going on?"

Rachel unleashes this big, weary sigh, heaving up from her with so much drama. Her heavy gaze swings my way, latching onto my eyes, which are surely sparkling with adoration and mirth right now. I try to look as sympathetic as possible, but it's hard to feel anything other than amused affection toward her typical theatrics.

"I'm referring to prom," she says, "and how Finn – my so-called-_boyfriend_ – isn't even planning on asking me because he just '_assumes_'" she throws in some bitter finger-quotes "that we're automatically going together."

My lips roll inward, trying to hide the sudden sourness puckering their edges. My eyes drop away from Rachel's, landing on my fingers to watch as they stroke my dog's fur.

"I'm sorry!" Rachel says quickly, "I'm being so petty with my glib problems. Of course you're annoyed with my shallow concerns. Let's just pretend like I didn't mention it, okay?"

My neck snaps back up, eyes reattaching to Rachel's; I see the sheepishness stirring in them, matching the splashes of bright red that crawl up her neck, onto her face, spilling shame into her chiseled bone structure.

"I'm not annoyed at _you_, Rachel," I insist. "I guess I'm just annoyed that…"

_That you always, unfailingly, bring up Finn when I least expect you to mention him, and that makes me feel even more inadequate in our relationship. That you let so much of your happiness revolve around a guy who doesn't deserve even _one_ of your incredible smiles_.

"'Annoyed that' _what?_" she prods, tilting her head to the side.

I take a deep breath. "I guess I'm just annoyed with Finn." There, that's not even a lie. If anything, it's an understatement.

"Why?"

_Because he doesn't appreciate the person I would kill to be with_. I stare off at the vast expanse of pale blue sky, unable to make eye-contact with her anymore. I find comfort in the clouds, in the sunshine beaming down on us, on the cool breeze rustling the flowers.

"Because he's utterly clueless in how to be a good boyfriend," I find myself saying, forcing myself to look back to Rachel and gauge her reaction.

She's pressing her lips together, in such a way that I can't tell if she's fighting back a smile or a frown. Her dimples appear upon her full cheeks, so innocent and beautiful. She peers up at me thoughtfully from those impossibly long lashes; with each blink, their narrow shadows skitter alongside her nose.

"Well," she finally says, drawing out a long breath, "I would say that's a _bit_ harsh; Finn's not a _bad_ boyfriend, he's just… Well, as you said, he's just 'clueless.'" She shrugs. "But aren't all teenage boys that way?"

"Not the ones worth dating," I say, pushing a hand through my hairline and shutting my eyes for a moment.

I need to shut out the world, shut out the utter unfairness of everything, for just a moment. I massage the coils away from forming in my neck, open my eyes, and fix Rachel with a gaze that pulls from my very soul.

"Look," I say. "You have a right to complain about how unromantic and oblivious Finn is. You have a right to complain about your relationship. But as your best friend, I have a damn _obligation_ to tell you that you can do so much better."

Rachel's brow furrows deeply as her mouth opens, but I hold up a hand to show I'm not finished. She purses her lips back together, eyes blinking in what I think is something akin to confusion.

"I used to date Finn, remember? And he treated me the same way when I was his girlfriend," I say, struggling to keep my tone as neutral as possible despite so many different emotions swirling within me. With each word that escapes and fills the air between us, my heart hits harder against my chest. "I see him zone out when you talk to him; he never does anything special for you; and you guys always seem like you're on different wavelengths. I'm just tired of seeing you with someone who takes you for granted, is what I'm trying to say. I care about you too much to stand seeing you upset all the time."

Rachel stares at me for several long seconds, mouth pouting and eyes wide. A vertical line creases between her eyebrows.

"Um," I chuckle, the sound rife with nerves and awkwardness. My fingers are clumsy as they tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. "Are you going to say something?"

She blinks, and with it, her entire expression changes; a shy smile steals up her closed lips, plumping her baby-apple cheeks. Her eyes squint, sparkling with something that I can't identify, something raw and poignant and somehow both happy and sad at the same time.

And then she's propelling herself forward, arms flinging around mine, our fronts smushing together in the tightest of hugs. Her chin is diving into my neck, fingers pressing all along my back; the extreme closeness of her, the utter _essence _of this tiny, remarkable being seeping through my layers of clothing to scatter warm chills along every inch of my flesh, makes me unable to react for a few seconds.

Finally, my brain tells me to snap out of it, and I obey, wrapping my arms around her, nestling my cheek against her luscious hair, closing my eyes and breathing in this moment, breathing in _her_, and wishing that it would never end. The bright sunshine of the sky warms my face as the bright sunshine of Rachel warms my soul.

When she speaks, her breath tickles my neck, lips murmuring a lucid shiver all along the bare skin. And her words make my fingers clench against her shoulders, twisting the material within my knuckles. They make my eyelids scrunch further closed as I pull her tighter against me.

"Why can't all boyfriends be as sweet as you?" she asks.

She has no way of knowing how that innocent question makes my heart rip right in half.


	31. Chapter 31

I suppose I have some 'splainin' to do, eh? I did have this chapter done before Thanksgiving, but I wanted to wait until I had the next one finished, too, before posting it. Now, I have the next chapter and more than half of the chapter after that one done, so I am finally making myself post this. I'm sorry for the delay. I'm also sorry that I didn't individually reply to almost any of the reviews from the last chapter extending my deepest thanks for all of the lovely comments. :') You guys are the best readers I could ask for!

One of the main critiques/comments I get is that Rachel is "too oblivious"/ "when will Quinn and Rachel get together?" (I'm paraphrasing.) I will just remind you guys that this is told only from Quinn's POV, which means that Quinn may not always be correct in trying to decipher how someone else feels or what they are thinking. So, Rachel may not be as "oblivious" as she seems, or she may be exactly that clueless because perhaps Quinn isn't being as obvious as she thinks she is. After this is completely finished and the very last chapter is posted, I am going to write a paraquel to this that is from Rachel's POV, and I think that will make things a lot clearer in what was going through Rachel's head/how Rachel thought Quinn was acting versus how Quinn was really acting in this story. It's all about perception, remember that. :)

Also, this chapter is full of angst. There's really not much fluff in it. The next few chapters will be high on the Angst-O-Meter, so please, just bare with me. I promise I am not a sociopath who enjoys torturing my characters, haha, this is how I have seen the story unfolding since the beginning, which means that things have to get worse before they can get better. I have some sad things coming up, but I also have some happy times in store, so have faith in your author. :D

Finally, my birthday was on Thursday (partaayy over here, woot-woot; partaayy over there, woot-woot!), which means some reviews would be an awesome belated birthday present. ;) Teehee! Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE<strong>

The following morning, I have to get to school at an ungodly hour yet _again_.

Rachel, Brittany, Santana, Finn, and I all meet in the entrance hallway. Brittany shows off the campaign posters she put together for me and Finn, and the other set she made for Santana.

The posters are simple but flattering. One of them has a picture of me and Finn grinning brightly at the camera, leaning shoulder-to-shoulder (well, not _exactly_ shoulder-to-shoulder, since he's quite a bit taller) against the biggest tree in Rachel's backyard, our arms crossed over our chests. There's another one with a close-up of our faces, smiling up at the sky.

These pictures would be perfect if it weren't for the blob of Brittany's thumb stuck in the upper corner of the lens; had this happened last year with the popularity-and-prom-queen-obsessed version of me, I would have verbally lashed Brittany and thrown a fit for her mess-up, I'm not proud to admit. But now I find myself laughing affectionately at such a Brittany-esque mistake.

Our slogan 'VOTE FOR QUINN AND FINN!' is basic, but since it's painted onto the large white poster in colorful letters doused with ample amounts of glitter, I'm thinking that's good because anything more complicated may give someone a headache to try and decipher what the jumble of letters read.

Rachel helps Finn and I hang up our posters all over the school while Brittany helps Santana with hers. The time passes quickly, if not awkwardly, considering Rachel gives Finn the cold shoulder and makes pointed, passive-aggressive conversation with me to punish her boyfriend.

I almost feel sorry for him, since he's so oblivious to why she's upset with him, but then he makes these infuriating, whiny comments under his breath and it makes me wish Rachel's cold shoulder would end up freezing his freaking mouth shut.

Then, the weirdest thing happens in first period; when I walk to the back row to take my seat, Rick swivels to face me. When our eyes lock, I see that he wears the iciest, smuggest smirk I have ever seen, sparking this strange sort of victory within his beady eyes.

I decide to look away and ignore him, and by the time I hazard a glance his way again, he's no longer paying me any attention. Still, this weird shiver goes all down my back when I think about it, almost as if a self-preserving instinct of mine is trying to warn me of something.

Finn and I skip Glee rehearsal to campaign together since Brittany said our best shot of reaching out to our peers is during lunchtime or after school. Since Finn was adamant with not missing out on his grilled cheese sandwich, after school it is.

Of course, Rachel is _not_ amused to discover that we're skipping Glee; she's more upset with Finn than she is with me, though, considering Finn is supposed to be her co-captain (I don't understand how he still has the title when he clearly doesn't care about it all that much).

Finn and I watch as Rachel storms off, her long dark-chestnut locks streaming out behind her, posture radiating indignity as she marches down the hall toward the choir room.

We turn to each other behind the table we stand behind, which has a giant poster of us behind it and a basket of goodies (read: bribery) atop its surface.

The difference between Finn's and my reactions to Rachel is night and day; I'm smirking amusedly at her typical _Rachel_ness while Finn just looks alarmed.

"She scares me sometimes," he says.

I roll my eyes. "Rachel's about as threatening as a baby kitten."

"Not when she gets all mad at me and stuff!" he insists, brown eyes wide with earnestness. "She uses all these big words and talks really fast and guilt-trips me!"

I cross my arms over my chest and cock my head at him. Irritation itches under my skin. "And did you ever think about the fact that those 'guilt-trips' only work because your conscience knows that you _do _have something to be guilty over?"

Finn frowns to himself. "Well… I guess when you put it that way… But she's, like, _always _mad at me about something." He stares down at the basket on our table. "It makes me feel like I'm a failure as a boyfriend. You don't think I'm a failure, do you, Quinn?" He licks his lips and turns sadly blinking eyes my way.

I sigh; only someone without a heart would feel no sympathy for this poor, clueless dope. "I don't think you're a _failure_ as a boyfriend, but, to be perfectly honest, I do think you could treat Rachel a hell of a lot better."

"You're just saying that because you're best friends with her," he gripes.

I roll my eyes up to the ceiling, patience wearing thin. "_No_, Finn, I'm saying that because it's the _truth_." When I look at him again, I quirk an eyebrow. "But yeah, you know what? I _am _best friends with her, which means it really bothers me to watch you treat her this way."

"Treat her like _what_ way?"

"Hmmm, let's see," I tap my chin, pretending to mull it over. I can feel Bitchy Quinn coming out to play, but really, I think it's more than that… It's Jealous Quinn, it's Protective Quinn, it's so many bitter and fierce emotions all simmering together. "You don't listen to her when she talks; you say she '_scares you_' when she gets upset, which is just completely disrespectful; you can never be bothered to do anything special for her, especially with this whole prom thing… Need I go on?"

At first, Finn stares at me with a heated mixture of hurt and accusation flickering within his eyes. His mouth flounders, finger jabs at me in the air as an incoherent string of stuttering escapes him. But then, he takes an audible breath, and as it escapes his lungs, the emotions across his face are replaced with a resigned sort of self-pity instead.

"Well," he says. "When you put it that way, I guess I'm kind of the worst boyfriend ever."

"I wouldn't go _that_ far," I say. "But you could definitely work on the way you treat her."

"I love Rachel," he tells me, a bit too firmly for my liking.

It makes a scowl twist onto my mouth; I have to break eye-contact with him. I don't like hearing him say that… I feel like he doesn't deserve to claim such a major feeling toward her, even though that's stupid of _me_ to think that, considering he's her long-time boyfriend and all.

"And I want to be worthy of her," he says, taking a step closer to me. His big paw of a hand claps onto my shoulder, prompting me to look up at his eyes again. I see the earnestness burning through him, so I find myself sighing with resignation.

Finn wants to treat Rachel better, which can only make Rachel happier. All I want is for Rachel to be happy. So of course, I have no choice but to help Finn prove his love to her.

God, the most poetic kind of irony is by far the worst.

I run a hand through my hairline and take a breath to settle the way my heart is jumping and stomach is churning. "All right," I say. "You can start by finding a cute way to ask her to the prom."

Finn removes his hand from my shoulder but continues to stare at me in this intent way, nodding as he takes in each word I say as if I'm as wise as the Dali Lama.

"All Rachel wants – all _any_ of us want, really – is to feel special and loved," I say. "So, do you have any ideas off the top of your head on how you can give her a prom proposal to put Brittany and Blaine's to shame?" I cross my arms over my chest, which feels strangely tight as I watch Finn think over how he can impress his girlfriend.

"Hmmm," he says. "Okay, well, like, I guess I can buy her a bouquet of flowers. Girls like flowers, right?"

I nod.

"Okay, awesome." He smiles proudly. "So, I'll get her flowers, especially roses."

"No," I say, my head reversing its mode as it starts shaking back and forth with disapproval.

Finn's eyebrows knit together. "Why not?"

"Roses are _way _too predictable," I say.

I think back to all the times Rachel and I have hung out in her backyard, and how she's always shown a distinctive liking toward the sunflowers. Every time she passes by them, she touches their cheery petals and smiles to herself.

"Get her sunflowers instead," I say. "They're her favorite flower, and it's much more personal than getting her roses because everybody always uses them for romance."

Finn shrugs. "I'll think about it… Now I have to think about what to _say_ to her… Uh… Oh! Okay! I'll just be like, 'Hey, Rach, here are some flowers. Will you go to prom with me?'" His eyes sparkle with excitement as he looks off into the distance, trying out the words as if to an audience. He turns back to me and asks, "What do you think?"

I smile as politely as I can. "Um… It could use a little work. For starters, you may want to work on the build up a little more. Don't just dive into the question as soon as the conversation's started. You've got to give her a little speech beforehand declaring how much she means to you." This time, my smile is amused, if not heavy, when I add, "Have you not seen _any _romantic comedies, Finn?"

"Rachel tries to make me watch them sometimes, but I always fall asleep during them," he says. "But now I'm wishing I had taken notes, 'cause being all sweet and sappy and stuff is kind of hard under pressure."

I resist the powerfully tempting urge to roll my eyes. "Why don't you just tell her all the things you like about her? Like, the _reasons_ why you're in love with her."

Finn scratches the back of his head and frowns. "I'm not good at stuff like that. I'm afraid I'll say something stupid or use the wrong word or something."

"You seriously can't think of _one_ coherent reason why you're in love with her?" _Ugh_, I feel like this going nowhere.

"She makes me feel good about myself," he says with a soft half-smile. "Well, except for when she cheated on me with Puck… But I probably shouldn't mention that when I ask her to prom, huh?"

I could almost laugh at the frustration level of this whole thing. "Yeah," I sigh, "Probably not the best idea to mention that."

"Well, what do you think I should say? You're her best friend, so you must have stuff you love about her, too. Also, you're a girl, so you're better at this whole 'romantic' thing than I am."

"Are you serious?" My heart starts to race. "Rachel's just my friend; how can I give you romantic things to say to her?"

"Please, Quinn," Finn begs. "I know we have a weird history between us, but I would really appreciate your help right now." His eyes are so big and desperate; his tone has taken on an edge of panic.

"Rachel means a lot to me," he says. "I love her so much. I'm asking you to help me as my _friend_."

Well, when he puts it _that_ way…

I sigh before licking my lips. "Fine…"

"You could tell her how…" I close my eyes and pretend that I'm not talking to Finn. I pretend like I'm talking to myself, or maybe even to her, if we lived in a different universe where I'm not a coward and she's not completely off-limits in every sense of the meaning.

I let the words pour out of me, making sure my tone remains calm, borderline bored, despite the heavy vulnerability they leave behind.

My eyes stay closed, but my heart has never felt more open. "You could say how, when she smiles, you feel like you could die from the beauty of it but also like you're being reborn, all at once.

"And you could say that you don't know which is more amazing – the sound of her singing voice, or the sound of her laughter, especially her really loud laugh that has that hacking snort at the end." I smile to myself just thinking about it.

"And you could say that she talks too pretentiously, and she talks too fast, and she talks too damn _much_," I shake my head, my smile turning softer than ever, "but you could never get tired of it, and you never want her to stop. Because, when she's talking to _you_, you've never felt more special."

I open my eyes and have to blink rapidly because a film of tears built up while they were shut. Luckily, Finn was staring at the ceiling the whole time, nodding with deep concentration all over his face.

"But," I add quickly, "Those are just some random examples. Say how _you_ feel, not how I'm telling you to feel. It'll make it more genuine that way."

"All right," he says, looking at me. He nods again, this time with renewed determination. "Lemme try." He grabs my hands between his and bores his gaze into mine.

It's more than a little unnerving for him to stare at me this way, and I can't help but be afraid of what he sees. Do my secrets echo from my soul, painted in my eyes for his to find?

"Rachel," he says in a serious tone, before quickly adding assuredly, "I know you're not Rachel, I'm just pretending like you are right now for practice."

"Yeah, I got that," I say with a small smirk of amusement and maybe just a smidge of affection. He is kind of endearing when he gets this serious, especially with how his hands are gripping mine as if I'm his estranged lover who he's just been reunited with after a decade of tragic distance apart.

"Rachel," he says again. "You're really awesome because you make me feel like I'm not a loser when I'm with you. I don't even know how you do it, but it's like, whenever you giggle or blush or smile that huge smile at me – the one where I can see, like, every one of your teeth – it makes me wonder how come a guy like me ever got to be with a girl like you. I love you more than you know, and I'm sorry that that's my fault 'cause I don't show it enough. Will you please make me even luckier than I already am by going to prom with me?"

My jaw drops by the end of his heartfelt speech. "Th-that was…" I blink away my shock. "Wow, Finn, that was… _great_." The word gets lodged in my throat like a jagged rock; I cough and yank my hands out of his, feeling bitter envy smack my chest.

"Awesome!" Finn cheers, pumping a fist in the air. "Y'know, Quinn, at first when Rachel told me the other day about how you're living with her now because your house is being fumigated, I felt kind of… I dunno, I guess, like, _jealous_. But now that I see you're actually really awesome, I think that you being in Rachel's life is a good thing for everybody."

His voice gets quiet, but his eyes are loud with an emotion I've never seen him aim my way, not even when we were dating. It's genuine affection. "I'm glad you're Rachel's friend, Quinn, and I'm glad me and you are becoming friends now, too."

I'm speechless, unsure how to react to that, unsure how to _feel_. I give a little shrug and a tight smile, thinking that Finn is an okay guy… But the fact that he's dating the girl I'm head-over-heels for means that I see him more as competition than anything. Which is laughable, I know, since it's not like I have a chance with Rachel or anything, but still. Finn is the lucky person I'll never get to be, and I can't help but to harbor more than a little resentment toward him for that, fairly or not.

"Okay, I'm going to write that speech to Rachel down so I can memorize it tonight…" He pulls his cell phone from his back pocket and starts typing out his speech into a text message to himself.

I try to smile and be happy for him. I try to especially be happy for _Rachel_. But I just can't.

Everything he said is sure to make Rachel melt into a puddle of Finn-loving goo all over his feet. They'll go to prom together, his tie matching her dress, and they'll slow-dance the night away. After Rachel hears what Finn has to say, they will be the happiest together they've been in years.

And that thought couldn't make me any more miserable.

* * *

><p>The next day at school, I keep expecting Finn to pop up with his roses and prom proposal.<p>

It doesn't happen until the end of the day, though; I'm walking toward Rachel's locker after going to mine, which is all the way on the opposite side of the school.

As I'm rounding the corner and entering the hall where her locker is located, I spot Finn rounding the corner at the other end, which is closer to where Rachel is. When I'm halfway down the hall, I stop and watch as Finn taps her on the shoulder.

She turns around, an inquisitive smile on her face. When she notices the bouquet of sunflowers (I see he took my advice) Finn holds in his hands, her smile turns into a pleasantly surprised grin.

He hands her the flowers; I watch as she brings them up to her nose and closes her eyes, inhaling deeply. When she opens them again, she looks up at Finn with rapt attention.

I can't see Finn's face since his back is toward me, but I can see Rachel's, and I watch as that grin transforms into a bashful smile as she listens to him, her eyes wide and shining with joy. Then, she's blinking fast, so I realize her eyes are shining with _tears _at this point.

Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to rip my eyes away from her. She is so gorgeous, even cheerier and lovelier than the flowers in her hands.

Finn must be done talking, because she throws her arms around his neck, face disappearing from my view.

All I can see are her hands cupping the back of his head, and how small they look against his lumbering frame.

All I can think about is all the times those hands slid effortlessly into mine, our fingers fitting so perfectly through the gaps between the other's.

Finn spins her around in a bear hug, stopping at an angle where I can no longer see Rachel's front but can now see his. He's grinning goofily, and when he sees me staring at them, his eyes light up and he pops me a quick thumbs-up.

My lips smile back like a good girl, and my hand obeys by returning a thumbs-up to him. And I _am_ glad that Rachel is obviously so happy right now, that Finn was able to make her light up like that.

But really, all I can think about as I look at Finn is: _That should be me_.

* * *

><p>Later, when Rachel and I are at her house, I knock on her bedroom door, which is opened halfway.<p>

"Come in!" she trills.

I oblige, lightly kicking the door further open so I can walk inside. I have to smile when I see that she's sitting on the edge of her bed, holding the sunflowers up to admire them and lean in to smell their fragrance.

She looks at me with a dreamy smile. "Hey, Quinn!"

"Hey," I walk over and sit down beside her. "You still on Cloud Nine?"

"After what Finn did for me today?" she asks with a breathless giggle. "I think I might be on Cloud Nine for the rest of my _life_."

My heart squeezes, but I ignore it. "That's great, Rach." And I do mean it; I'm genuinely glad to see how happy she is right now. Even though there may be just a trace of envy beneath this smile I wear. "The flowers were a nice touch, huh?"

"Oh yes," she says. "Sunflowers are my favorite! I don't know how Finn knew that though, since he's always gotten me roses. It was incredibly thoughtful of him."

Okay, maybe my smile is just a _little_ bit too proud at that. "'Incredibly thoughtful,' you say." I stare down at my long brown skirt and run my fingers over its whisper-thin fabric. "That _does _sound thoughtful."

"So, you told me that he gave you this really sweet speech, right?" I return my eyes to hers, but she's back to admiring the sunflowers. "You still haven't given me the details on all that he said."

"Well, he said that he feels very lucky to have me as his girlfriend. He said that I make him not feel like a loser, that I make him feel special," she says, stroking the flower's long yellow petals. "But honestly, that's not what I can't stop smiling about. He's said a close variant to those things before, always about how Imake him feel good about himself, but he never explains _why_ that is, or what he sees in _me_."

I cock an eyebrow, wondering where this is going. "Okay… Well, what else did he tell you?"

Rachel bites down on the corner of her lower lip in the most bashfully joyful way; she swings her eyes to land on mine, hers overflowing with that reverent look she gets whenever somebody gives her a genuine compliment. It's her 'I'm worth it' look, the kind that makes her entire face glow from within.

As she speaks, her eyes shine like they did earlier. And with each word she says, I feel my own growing dimmer.

"He said that, when I smile, he feels like he's both dying and being reborn at the same time from how beautiful it is. And he said that he doesn't know if he likes my singing voice or my laugh more. And he said that whenever I talk to him, he never wants me to stop, because just the fact that I'm talking to _him_ makes him feel special."

My blood runs cold; my heart stops. I stare at her in horror, but she's too busy looking at those damn flowers again to notice, blinking back fresh tears of happiness as she smiles her freaking face off.

"I have to go to the bathroom," I blurt out, jumping up and dashing from her bedroom.

I duck into the hall bathroom and shut the door, leaning my full weight against it as my chest constricts for air, which is hard to do considering I feel like a giant cinderblock is crushing down on it.

That bastard. That fucking _bastard_ stole my words. The words that came straight from _my_ heart.

And because he stole them, he got the girl. _My _girl.

And the worst part is, I can't even tell Rachel that those words that made her smile like that, those words that made her eyes glow, are from me.

Because then she'll know how I feel about her, and the coward that I am could actually pass out right now from imagining how she would react to that.

That is the last time I'm helping Finn Hudson with anything, you can be damn sure.

What does being nice do? It gets you nothing but a bitch-slap in the fucking heart.

Karma my ass.

* * *

><p>I wake up for school the next morning determined not to let what happened yesterday keep me in a bad mood.<p>

I dress in a sheer, royal-blue blouse with a black camisole under it, paired with some tight black pants and a pair of my favorite gold gladiator sandals. My hair looks thick and voluminous, parted to the side and falling just past my shoulders in a silky swoop.

I figure that so long as I look like a million bucks, that should rub off on my self-esteem and make me at least feel like a thousand, right?

When Rachel and I get to school, Finn is waiting for us at her locker. I look away when they kiss each other hello. I feel like punching the lockers or kicking Finn in his stupid legs or, even better, his stupid face. So much for what happened yesterday not affecting my mood today.

"I can't wait until our date tonight," Rachel says to Finn.

"Yeah, same here," he says with a dopey half-smile.

While Rachel's putting her things away, I turn to Finn with a pointed expression. "Can I talk to you in private for a minute?" I ask in a way that leaves no room for argument.

Finn's eyebrows knit together. "Uh, yeah, sure."

I lead him out of earshot from Rachel before I let my death-glare manifest and my tone drop to an icy whisper. "Are you so much of a freaking _moron_ that you can't come up with _anything_ on your own?"

Finn's jaw drops; he takes a little shuffle backward. "Whoa! Scary Quinn! Okay, um, didn't expect that since I thought you were being pretty awesome and nice just two days ago…"

"Why did you tell Rachel all of those things that I said about her?" I demand. "You passed them off as your own thoughts and feelings, when they were the examples that _I_ gave you."

Finn looks torn between confused and pissed off. "Yeah!" he says defensively. "They were the examples of awesome stuff about her that you gave _me_. I don't get why you're so mad about this; it's not like you even really thought them. You were helping_ me_ with a speech for her." He looks like a toddler who wants to stomp their foot in frustration; I'm surprised he doesn't.

"The point is, _Finn_," I snap, "that yes, those were some random examples I came up with, but they were just to get your romantic thought process going. The fact that you used them means that you completely negated the whole point of me coaching you into speaking your _own_ feelings. It… It just… It just makes you a _liar_, okay, _God!_"

Finn frowns. "You're seriously the most confusing person I have ever met, Quinn. One minute you're my friend; the next, you're yelling at me as if you hate my guts! Would you just make up your freaking mind already? If you decide that you actually do want to be my friend after all, then please let me know."

With that, he turns around and marches back over at Rachel, who is just beginning to close up her locker.

Fuming so hard that I can practically feel the smoke spewing from my ears, I pivot on my heel and storm away to my own locker, wanting to put Finn, Rachel, and especially Finn&Rachel, as far away from me as possible.

* * *

><p>I'm one of the first people to arrive at English class, probably because I was waiting outside for the warning bell to ring.<p>

I take my usual seat in the back and get my supplies organized on my desk. Brittany and Santana walk in before Rachel does, and I find myself grateful for this fact. I'm still so pissed off at Finn that seeing her will just make me even angrier right now.

"Hey, Q," Santana says as she and Brittany sit down in our back row. "Why do you look like you want to pick up your desk and throw it across the room?"

"Hurting inanimate objects is just so mean," Brittany pouts. "'Cause, like, they can't even talk to tell you to stop it, so they have to suffer in silence."

"I'm just in a bad mood right now," I say.

"Well, you look really pretty today," Brittany says with a gentle smile. "Even prettier than you usually do, I mean. I wish you would stop frowning and would smile, though, because people automatically look ten times better when they smile – it's a scientific fact."

I try to smile but the attempt falls flat. "Thanks, Britt." I clear my throat. "So, um, maybe you guys could tell me something funny to cheer me up?"

Santana shrugs. "I could tell you the story of how I found twenty dollars under the couch this morning."

I scrunch my brow. "How is that supposed to make _me_ feel better?"

Santana rolls her eyes. "Jeez, tough crowd."

"Oh!" Brittany bubbles up. "I totally saw a unicorn last night!" She proceeds to launch into her story, and I can't tell if she's being serious or is just making this up for my benefit, but either way I'm grateful.

By the end of her story, I'm smiling a small but genuine smile and even laughing a little bit.

That is, until I sense a presence at my left and Rachel's voice says, "What's so funny, ladies?"

My back stiffens as I turn away from Santana and Brittany in order to look at her. I know it's not fair to punish her; she has no way of knowing that Finn's prom proposal to her would end up making me so bitter and upset.

"Brittany was just talking about unicorns," I explain.

Rachel rolls her eyes affectionately. "So, Quinn, why did you ditch me at my locker this morning?" She asks the question casually enough, but there's a combination of accusation and worry that manifests in the jump of her eyebrows.

I shrug. "I just wanted to be alone for a little bit before class." Technically, this isn't a lie.

She seems to accept my answer, or maybe she can sense that I'm not going to give away any more details. Either way, she easily switches the topic, happiness brightening her entire countenance. "I'm so excited for the weekend! Tonight, Finn and I are going on our first date in I can't remember when! And then, I was thinking on Saturday, you and I could go do something fun, since we haven't done anything outside of my house together in a long time."

I'm struggling not to scowl until she mentions this last part. "I would love to do something with you, Rachel," I smile.

She beams back and does a dorky but adorable happy-dance in her chair. "Yay! I have a date with Finn on Friday, and I have a date with you on Saturday."

I like the sound of that _a lot_ – 'I have a date with you on Saturday.' It sounds lovely enough to almost erase all my previous negativity completely.

"I'm looking forward to it already," I say, cheeks warming with a delicate blush.

"Me too!" she says. Our eyes remain locked as we hold each other's grin for a few lingering seconds. I wonder if her heart is fluttering like mine.

The late bell rings and our teacher calls attention to the class. It's only when she's taking roll that I notice Rick's not here, which is weird. Despite all his terrible qualities, once thing you can't say about him is that he's not punctual. Not that I'm complaining of his absence, of course. Far from it.

Forty-five minutes into class, when I've forgotten about Rick's lack of attendance, the mullet-headed jerk himself saunters in with a late slip.

When he walks over to his seat, he sets his backpack down and twists halfway around, his eyes zipping over at me for a quick second. It could just be my imagination, but I think he's wearing a gloating smirk – it's too late to tell, for he's already sitting down and facing forward.

For the rest of the class, I find my rotten mood fading as I pass notes with Rachel and whisper to Santana. We have time at the end to do our assignment, which means we can talk to each other since our teacher is done lecturing.

I'm smiling sincerely with a newfound warmth in my heart by the time the bell shrieks to switch classes.

I sling my book bag and purse onto my shoulder as Rachel, Santana, and I wait for Brittany to gather her things. We end up being the last four to leave the classroom, chatting animatedly amongst ourselves about the English test that's been scheduled for Monday.

Brittany makes a joke about asking the unicorn to help her with her homework, and we're all giggling as we exit the classroom and step out into the hallway, the sound of intense whispering sharpening the air.

We freeze in place when our eyes fall onto the sight before us.

My smile dies off my lips in such a way that I can't see how it will ever come back.

"Oh. My. God," Santana hisses.

The hall goes quiet, or maybe that's because all I can hear is the roaring of blood in my ears, like a tidal wave that is rising and rising within me, crashing a fierce rhythm over and over inside my head.

I can't breathe: my lungs are choking with a thousand words I cannot say.

My heart zooms inside of a chest that tightens with a silent scream, echoing deep within me.

A prickly blush sears under every inch of my skin, buzzing from my core, enveloping me in a white-hot heat that makes my field of vision tunnel into a speck before growing back to its natural width. But as soon as I can see clearly again, I'm wishing for the darkness to return.

All over the walls, lining all down the hallway and the lockers and on the classroom doors, are copies of my and Finn's prom campaign posters. Only these posters are just of me. Some of them are even different, using my yearbook photo from last year.

But all of them shout my secret for the entire school to see.

'Vote Quinn FAG-GAY!' is written across some in big, bold marker.

The ones with my yearbook picture on them have a speech bubble springing from my oblivious smile, its contents reading 'I LUV VAGINA ALOT!'

Others have 'Lesbo' scrawled across my forehead, the one word packing a punch as fierce as a thousand.

The whispering climaxes into murmuring, into talking, into giggles and laughter that wraps its claws around my throat and _squeezes_.

_This is not happening; this is not happening; this is not happening_…

But it is. Rachel's hand jumping onto mine, fingers latching tightly around my wrist, makes me painfully aware of how real this whole thing is.

Rick steps out in front of me, two of his large hockey buddies flanking his either side. His beady eyes bore right into mine, glinting with a black coldness. "Dyke," he says, a smirk stretching high into place.

I notice he has marker smudges all over his hands, matching the colors on the posters, and I feel so sick to my stomach that I know I would be puking up my breakfast right now if I had actually eaten anything.

Every pore of my flesh feels like it's sizzling with my full-body blush, like waves of humiliated heat are rolling off of me. My eyes are wide and burning; the lining of my eyelashes is scalding apart with the effort I take to blink away a barrage of tears.

"You did this!" Brittany hisses. "You did this to Quinn!"

"You have no proof," Rick says smugly. "But I will say, whoever did it, she should be grateful." He raises his voice into nearly a yell, loud enough for all the people staring at me and trying to listen into our conversation to hear him. He holds his arms out and turns to the rapt audience, speaking at large. "You can't fool anyone into thinking you're normal anymore, Quinn. Now everyone knows you as the freak you really are."

"Come on," Rachel is whispering in my ear, but I'm numb all over. I can't process her words, or her hand grasping mine, or her breath tickling my ear. "Let's go to the girls' bathroom… _Quinn, please, come on_…"

All I can process is that everything I have worked so hard for has fallen apart. Everything is over. My life is over. _I _am over. And it's too much, it's too overwhelming, it's so hard to fucking _breathe_, it's so hot, so fucking hot.

Everyone is talking loudly, pointing at me, some looking disappointed, some are betrayed, there's disgust, there's shock, there's excitement, and there's even pity, these spectrum of emotions all adding to the fangs of panic that sink into my throbbing heart to puncture it even further.

I am rooted to the spot. My muscles are paralyzed. My mind is running circles, thoughts getting tangled into a mess of nothing but horrified disbelief that rocks right into my bones.

Rick turns to saunter off down the hallway. Santana wears an expression that I have never before seen her wear – it's rage and loathing and ferocity so strong that it's a brand all its own. I notice this about her as she speed-walks after him.

Eyes are leaving me as they follow her, wondering what the temperamental girl will do. I can only stand and watch like a fucking idiot, unable to do anything but blink back tears and flounder my mouth like a fish.

Santana issues one tap onto Rick's shoulder with a rigid finger. He turns around, that triumphant smirk still painted across his face, glinting in his eyes.

He opens his mouth to say something, but Santana is rearing back her arm, hand balling into a fist, and she's acting before he even has a chance to retaliate.

She punches him, so hard and so fast that the entire hallway reverberates with the loud _crack_ of the bones of her knuckle colliding with the bones of his nose.

His head rears back, blood already flying from the place of impact, a strangled but tortured cry exploding from his mouth.

Everyone's eyes are on Rick and Santana, who is now screaming at him in rapid-fire Spanish as Rick's hockey posse tries to hold her back from attacking him any further. A teacher runs into view to split up the escalating scene. Brittany sprints over, yelling at the hockey guys to stop grabbing at Santana.

Rachel's hand is no longer holding mine, for it, along with her other one, are covering her gaping mouth.

For just this one second, everybody's attention is off of me.

A second is all I need.

I throw my book bag and purse to the ground and take off at a mad bolt, running for the exit at the other end of the hallway from Rick and Santana's scene.

I run so fast that my hair whizzes out around me, the sound of whipping air joining the sounds of people yelling crude comments to me as I pass by. Several people stick out their feet to try and trip me, but I keep out of their distance, sticking to the very middle of the hall.

I hear Rachel calling after me, and another familiar voice that I can't place and don't even care to.

All I know is one thing and one thing only: _I have to get out of here_.

I run as if fire licks the back of my heels.

Run as if the devil is chasing me with a pitchfork.

Run as if the roof is crumbling down around me, each debris just barely missing my head.

I run as I've never run before, feet barely seeming to touch the ground, as if I am flying.

When I finally reach the exit doors after what feels like minutes but is only seconds, I don't slow down: I let my shoulder collide into them, shoving them open enough to pop out, my feet hitting the sidewalk beyond where I keep running, running, running, across the parking lot.

My arms are bent at my sides, my knees are bouncing high with each step, my breath is going in through my nose and out my mouth at a controlled pace that defies the rapid speed at which I run.

Laughter and whispers and 'dykedykedyke' screams in my head, growing higher- and higher-pitched until it's nothing but a mosquito's whine, nothing but white noise.

I don't even know when it started, but tears are flowing down my face, tracing paths of drying salt that itch as if my hot skin is a peeling sunburn.

Each step I place forward, farther away from the school, farther away from the chaos and wreckage of my life left behind, makes the pressure on my chest ease just an ounce.

I don't know where I'm going; all I know is I can't stop, won't stop, never gonna stop.

I want to run out of Lima. Out of Ohio. Out of this world.

I'll run to Canada if I have to.

I'll run to the sun and get burned into one black crisp of nothingness, charred away for good. I'm sure that won't feel much different than how I feel now.

It doesn't matter; I don't care; I just have to keep going forward because there is no way I can ever go back.

I don't know how long I've sprinted, or how far – I just know that the school is far behind by now, and yet what just happened feels as close as if I never stepped foot out of the building.

My speed eventually peters out into a jog, then into a speed-walk, but despite the aching in my legs and the icy burn of my lungs that saws my chest in half with each breath, there's no way I'll go any slower than this.

Sweat trickles down my hairline, sticks my clothes against my body. I've stopped crying, feel too numb to cry, feel nothing but the sun beating down on me and the tautness of my unceasingly flexing muscles and the way my throat has dried out like sand.

The honking of a car horn blares once, twice, then there's the sound of tires crunching on the gravel of the road as they pull up beside the cracked sidewalk I tread on.

"Quinn!" that familiar voice that called my name earlier calls again, sounding so relieved and so insistent that I falter to a stop and turn my head their way.

Immediately, I wish I hadn't.

"Leave me alone, Kurt," I say with no inflection at all. My voice is foreign and warbled, stretching thin against my burning lungs.

I start walking forward, exhaustion hitting me deeply enough to make my gait much slower than I want it to be. Kurt keeps the car driving at my speed, following me, his upper torso stretching out from the rolled-down car window.

"You know, I've been driving around looking for you for thirty minutes," he says. "I tried to follow you out into the parking lot, but you were already at the other side by the time I got out there. You're so fast, I'm surprised you wasted those years as a cheerleader rather than training as an Olympic track runner." His tone is carefully breezy and neutral, but I can sense something heavier underneath.

I ignore him and stare straight ahead, squinting against the harsh sunlight.

"Why don't you get in the car, Quinn? I promise I'm not going to kidnap you. See, I'm not offering you candy or anything."

I keep ignoring him, my hands curled into tight fists at my sides, my chest heaving as I struggle to breathe only through my nostrils.

Kurt sighs in this way that makes me think he's faking it. "If for no other reason than this, do it for the sake of fashion."

I roll my eyes to myself and quicken my pace, not knowing what the hell he's talking about. I just want him to _go away_.

"Your poor shoes are getting _ruined_," he says.

Even though I roll my eyes again, I do stop to look down at them. Their once-pristine condition is now dirtier, with grime between my toes from the sidewalk's dust and dirt. The soles are wearing thin against my blistered feet, as I can feel with each step.

I look at Kurt, taking in the way he blinks at me from innocent blue eyes. He wears a carefully calm face, as if I'm a stray dog he doesn't want to set off.

He's idled the car and I've idled my feet, and for several long seconds, we just stare at each other.

Something comes over me – this feeling of tired resignation. I sigh so deeply that it rattles my soul, fold my arms across my chest, and find myself stomping around the front of his car. My sandals slap against my feet at a jaunty rhythm that's in complete opposite to the way I feel.

I open the front passenger door and climb into his shiny black SUV. After I've shut the door and buckled up, I cross my arms again and stare blankly out the windshield.

Kurt presses down on the gas pedal, and this time, I let the car do the running for me, everything lurching forward as he drives down the road.


	32. Chapter 32

Now maybe you guys will understand why I waited so long to ensure I could post the last chapter and this one back-to-back? I figured you would want to find out what happened as soon as possible. See, I'm not so mean after all! xD Heehee.

I hope you enjoy, and as always, reviews make me extremely happy and motivated! :D Much love! XOXOXO.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO<strong>

We've been driving for five minutes inside a thick, awkward silence that permeates the air inside Kurt's car like a choking swirl of smog.

The air-conditioning is blasting from the vents, and though it helps to cool the sweat from my skin and ease the blush from my pores, it doesn't help diffuse the quietness between us.

Kurt stops at a 'Stop' sign and takes the opportunity to bend down to grab something from his backpack. It's a bottle of water, not yet opened; he looks at me with a quirked eyebrow and holds out the bottle.

Wordlessly, I take it from him, giving the smallest nod of gratitude in response. Kurt looks both ways before driving past the 'Stop' sign. I unscrew the cap from the still-chilled water and take a dainty sip… Which quickly turns into a large gulp, my parched state begging for a reprieve.

As I drink the water, its smooth liquid washes down my throat, pools coldness deep into my belly.

The next swallow I take flushes free the clump of words clogging my vocal chords.

"Where are you taking me?" I ask, my voice still sounding strangely detached, like it doesn't belong to me. Like I'm a puppet borrowing somebody else's for the time being. "You don't even know where I live."

"I know that you're staying at Rachel's," he says. "She told me about your fumigation problem."

"I don't want to go to Rachel's right now." I didn't even know this was true until the words leave me.

"Good; I'm not taking you there."

"Then where _are_ you taking me? How about you ask me where _I _want to go?" I'm snapping at him like a petulant child, I know, but I can't help it. There's this negative energy buzzing all through me, like I'm a battery going haywire. I can't stop flashing back to what happened at school, which is making me go through a continuous cycle of painful emotions.

"I think I liked you better when you were quiet," he says.

I would open up the passenger door and jump out right then and there, but I notice that his tone was joking, and when I glare at his profile, I see that the corner of his mouth is lifted in a soft smile. I settle for emitting a bitter grumble instead.

"Anyway," Kurt says, driving through a green light. "I'm taking you somewhere that never fails to cheer me up. But if we get there and you don't want to go, then I'll take you wherever you want. Consider me your fabulously well-coiffed chauffeur."

I roll my eyes and refold my arms across my chest, scowling as I resume my earlier silent stance of staring out the front windshield.

I realize where Kurt is taking me a few minutes later, when he pulls into the parking lot of The Lima Bean.

He parks close to the entrance and cuts the engine, turning to look at me with a curious jump of his eyebrows. It's a nonverbal question of if I want to go inside or not.

I shrug and unbuckle, reaching for my purse between my feet before remembering that, duh, I left both my purse and book bag back at the school. The memory of _why_ I had to ditch my bags and run like hell makes my stomach twist so violently that I fear I may spew up the water I just drank.

Kurt and I get out of his car and walk inside the coffee establishment, keeping at an arm's length apart.

Immediately upon entering, that delicious, heady smell of caffeine-based drinks, pastries, and freshly ground coffee beans drifts up my nostrils. I take a longer whiff, feeling one- or two-percent better just being in this warm environment.

Seeing as how it's about eleven o'clock, we've beaten the morning rush and are a bit too early for the lunchtime crowd. This means that by the time we approach the counter, there is nobody else in line.

I start to veer off toward the tables to sit down and wait for Kurt to get his order, but his hand clamps onto my elbow, stopping me.

"Where are you going?" he asks. "You need to tell the barista what you want."

"If you haven't noticed, I don't have my purse with me, which means I don't have any _money_ with me. I don't need anything anyway; it's fine."

"No, it's on me," he says with a flick of his hand through the air. "Just tell me what you want."

I give him an annoyed look. "I'm not going to let you pay for me, Kurt."

"Too bad, because I am," he says, sticking his chin out. "So, you can either tell me what you want, or I'll get you something random and risk wasting my money on buying something that you may not even like. It's up to you."

I huff, the sound saturated in the irritation I find grating against my bones. I hate how he's being so nice to me, when he's never been this friendly or generous on my behalf before. And thinking about _why_ he's suddenly acting this way, because of what happened, is the worst of all.

"Fine," I say, stepping away from him. "I'll have a skinny mocha latte, no whip. And make sure it's decaf." Lord knows I don't need a caffeine rush added to the adrenaline that still fritzes through my veins.

"And, uh," I add over my shoulder, "Thanks." My lips cannot muster up a smile, but I am able to give another grateful nod, which makes Kurt return one of his own before approaching the counter.

There are only about half a dozen other patrons spread throughout the room, so I take the first table-for-two that I pass by. And it's funny how, as soon as my butt slides into the chair, I realize that this is the same table that Rachel and I sat at when we were working on our mash-up assignment a few months ago.

It really is crazy how much can happen in just a couple of months, just a string of weeks that all lead up to one after another pivotal moment in my life. I started out at this chair thinking that I hated Rachel, and since then I've learned that she is one of the most important people in my life.

I've been kicked out of my house, sent quite literally running out of the closet at school, and so many other moments – both little and small –have led up to right now, to me sitting here waiting for _Kurt Hummel_ of all people to bring me the same drink that I ordered all those days and days ago when I was here with Rachel. Well, some things never change, I guess, and preferred beverages are one of them.

A strange blend of warm and cold nostalgia hits me full-force; I doodle invisible shapes over the tabletop with my fingertips, wishing I could go back to the start. Back to when everything was so much simpler. Back to when Rachel and I were just starting to become friends, and I still had Sam, and my parents still loved me.

But when I really think about it, I don't think I would have changed a thing. Because, despite my current predicament, if I had changed anything, I wouldn't be as close to Rachel or Puck, or even to Brittany and Santana, as I am now. And that thought is comforting enough to keep away the quiver that was threatening to tug at my lower lip.

"A skinny mocha latte, no whip, decaf, just as the lady ordered," Kurt's voice pulls me from my thoughts and pulls my eyes away from the tabletop to drift up to his as he takes the seat in front of me. He sets down my latte in front of me, along with a chocolate chip _and_ a blueberry muffin.

I raise my eyebrows at the muffins before turning my half-skeptical, half-confused expression his way. "Why the muffins?" I poke at the steaming chocolate chip one in a ginger manner, as if afraid it might bite me.

"Because you look like you could use one," he says with a light shrug but a heavy smile. "And I didn't know which kind you liked, so I went with the two most universally popular flavors. Whichever one you don't want, I'll have, so choose quickly before they get cold."

I scoot the chocolate chip muffin closer to me and pass the blueberry to Kurt, who's taking a sip from his coffee and closing his eyes in satisfaction.

I know that I should be saying 'thanks' right now, or something else to display some sort of polite gratitude for him buying me not only a latte, but a muffin to go along with it, all out of the kindness of his heart. But instead, I feel my prickly shield going up, defending my heart from any further damage. And, truth be told, I'm still more annoyed than anything over his random change of attitude.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" I demand.

Kurt's brow draws together. "I'm always nice to you, aren't I?"

I release a chuckle that's bitterer than any kind of coffee they could ever serve here. "No, not really. I thought you hated me."

Kurt rests his hands on top of the table and scrunches his eyebrows even closer together, creasing them with a deep fold. "Why would you think I hate you?"

I stare at him in scathing disbelief. "Maybe because you've never given me a reason _not_ to; you act like you're put out with my presence every time you see me, and on the rare occasion I eat lunch at your table, you make it no secret how you wish I wasn't there."

He sighs, the sound rife with understanding and regret and maybe a pinch of sadness. "Okay, well, when you put it _that_ way…"

But I'm not finished; a wave of something unbridled and jagged is rising up within me, making my heart pound faster and harder against my chest.

"You've always been completely rude and unfriendly, and then when you think I'm gay, you suddenly act like we're friends or something. God, is there, like, some sort of secret Homosexual Members of America society that I'm unaware of? You like me now just because you think that I play for your team, so to speak, so _now_ you feel loyalty and empathy or whatever?"

I know my eyes must be flashing, and my upper lip is sneering, and I'm breathing loudly from a pair of heaving lungs, but to Kurt's credit, he just stares at me calmly and sympathetically… And, actually, his reaction – or more so, _lack_ of a reaction –makes me even _more_ frustrated.

My mouth opens to vent and rant some more, but Kurt's question cuts my anger right in half, leaving me feeling crumpled and weak.

"So," he says, looking right into my eyes, "You _are_ gay then?"

I have to break eye-contact; I stare down at my muffin, watch as gentle plumes of smoke curl up from it. "What do you think?" I reply dryly.

"I think that you wouldn't have sprinted like a track star out of the school if those vandalized posters hadn't held at least a merit of truth to them," he says. "I think that you wouldn't have reacted the way you just did to my question if the answer wasn't 'yes.'"

"Yeah, well," I mumble, my eyes sagging at the edges. "I think you think too much."

I give a little jump when Kurt's hand lands on top of mine, his fingers splaying over my knuckles. The action beckons my eyes to return to his baby blues, which are pouring open with a vulnerability I have never seen in him before. But it's an odd sort of vulnerability, a kind that is powered by strength rather than weakness.

"I'm just going to say this once, Quinn, because I know that what you desire least of anything right now is feeling like you're being pitied," he says. "I'm sorry. I am so, so _sorry_ that this happened to you, that some assholes told a huge secret of yours to the entire school. Nobody deserves to be outed, especially not like that, and especially not you."

I cough to clear the lump hardening within my throat and nod at him a few times, unable to speak. Kurt pats my hand before pulling away.

We pick at our muffins and drink our coffees in several moments of silence, but this kind of quiet is much different than the kind that consumed us in his car. This kind is thoughtful, lighter, maybe even just the tiniest bit comforting.

"Um," I finally say, setting down my latte. "This isn't the first time I've been outed. The only real times I got to come out on my own was once to Puck, and then again to Santana and Brittany. But when I came out to Rachel, it was more an accident than anything." I blush, this mixture of embarrassment and…okay, and pleasure…at the memory of kissing her. "My parents found out by reading my diaries, and they kicked me out. And now the school found out because of Rick and his jackass friends."

Kurt listens intently throughout my little speech, his eyes filled with the rawest sympathy I have ever seen in him. When I get to the part about my parents, he sucks in a horrified breath, eyes popping wide.

"Oh my God," he says. "Your parents… Wow…" He shakes his head to himself. "Well, now I finally understand what you meant about 'not everyone's dad being like Mike Brady,' or whatever it was you said to me after that Open House where your parents insulted Rachel's. That always stuck with me, and now I see just what you meant by it, and… Oh God, is _that_ why you're staying at her house now? Because you got kicked out of yours?"

I nod, my heart feeling waterlogged in my chest, as if the ghost of all my past tears has returned to take up residence within it. "Yeah."

"I can't imagine which is more awful," he muses. "The way your parents found out, or what happened today…" He trails off, a faint blush spilling across his dainty cheekbones. "Sorry, um, I probably shouldn't have brought that up again."

I try for a dryly amused smile, but my mouth just crawls around a bit before dying back into a grim line. "It's okay; it's not like I forgot about it. I pretty much can't _stop_ thinking about earlier at school, so it's not like not talking about it will make it go away."

"You know," Kurt says, a spark of something flitting in his eyes – it's like humor and determination and a careful kind of casualness all rolled into one. "I don't know which is more disgusting to me; the fact that Rick and his posse outed you… Or the fact that their spelling and grammar are so atrocious."

Slowly, impossibly, and yet there it is – an amused smile hovers at my lips. "Oh God," I say, clapping a hand to my forehead, a swell of humor bringing this strange sensation to fill the hollow in my chest. "I know; it's bad enough that they did what they did, but did they have to bring the English language down with it?"

"Which do you think is worse?" Kurt asks with a smirk. "The 'love' of 'I luv vaginas alot' being spelled 'L-U-V,' or how 'a lot' was put together as one word? I mean, yeah, you may be gay, but at least you're not illiterate."

I burst into laughter, but it shakes into a cry halfway through. Tears flood my eyes as my chin starts to tremble, sending off a domino effect of tremors to rock throughout my body. I dig the heels of my hands against my eyes to keep the tears inside as I fight away the hysteria that bubbles within my chest.

"Quinn," Kurt says my name so gently, handling it with fragile care. "It's okay to cry, sweetie. Let it out and you'll feel better."

"No," I whisper, grinding my hands harder into my screwed-shut eyes. "I can't cry; I can't ever let them see me cry."

"Oh, honey," he says, and it's crazy how different his whisper is than mine was – my own was husky and rasped, while his is soft, the sound wafting out like a tuft of a breeze.

I peel my hands away from my eyes, knowing that my mascara must be smeared and caked now from how I was rubbing it, and blink at him repeatedly, until the moisture coating them fades away into the dryness I desire.

"Do you see anyone here that you know?" he asks rhetorically, making a show of craning his neck and peering around the building. "It's just you and me. You can cry all you want to."

"But that's just it," I hiss. "I don't _want _to cry. I _hate_ crying; it makes me feel stupid and weak."

"There are a lot of things that crying makes you," he says. "But 'stupid and weak' isn't one of them."

I pluck a napkin from the dispenser on the table and wipe the crud from under my eyes. I release a ragged breath that makes exhaustion seep straight into my bones, weighing me down. My shoulders slump forward.

"I think I should just transfer schools," I say, half-sarcastically and half-seriously. "There's no way I'll ever be able to show my face at McKinley again."

"I transferred last year," Kurt reminds me. "And though I could never regret that in doing so I met Blaine, the love of my life, the truth is, I _do_ regret the fact that I had to transfer. Because it meant that I let the bullies win; I let them drive me away from my own school, from my friends and the Glee Club, all because I was too afraid to face them."

I look at Kurt out of weary eyes, watching as memories flit through his, as a spectrum of emotions swirls over his face. He licks his lips as his eyes turn serious with conviction, with a shining honesty tinged with a splash of sorrow and regret. "Don't let anyone else's opinion of you determine how you feel, Quinn. Just because people are cruel and petty and ignorant, just because they disvalue you for being exactly who you are, that doesn't mean they're _right_. And it's your job to believe they aren't."

My lips part as his words absorb through my flesh, widen my eyes. The tears well up, but this time, I let them. I wait until Kurt is a blob of highlighted brown hair melting into straight shoulders and the swirl of the buttons on his military style jacket. I wait until my vision is nothing but whirls of colors and overlapping shapes coming together into one blur.

Then, I blink, letting the tears spill down my cheeks, dangle from my chin, and plop onto my hands gripping each other on the tabletop.

I sniffle and take a rattling breath, swiping my bare forearm to rid the cold wetness from my face.

Kurt hands me a clean napkin; I take it to blow my nose, and then use another to clean the last of the tears away. "Thank you," I say.

"Of course," he replies.

We share smiles that are small in length but huge in meaning. Our eyes lock and this special sort of understanding flows together, tying us in a way that makes me sure I've just made a new friend.

"What time is it?" I ask after taking a sip of my latte. It's like I can finally taste it now, all the undercurrents of flavor blending together, and this time, the heat of the drink fills me up, awakens my senses.

Kurt pulls his cell phone from the breast pocket of his navy blue jacket to check; when he looks at the screen, however, he winces. "Uh-oh," he says.

"What?" I ask. "I don't want to feel any more dread today, so please don't get all cryptic like that."

"Oh, sorry," he says. "Um, well, I had my phone on silent since we were at school, and because of that, I didn't know that Blaine texted me and _Rachel_ texted me four times and called twice… And each of Rachel's texts are none-too-subtly inquiring if I know where you are."

The mention of her name, of the fact that she cares about me and is worrying about me, makes a special smile pull up my lips. I feel my heart give a flutter, sending a burst of something warm and impossibly _happy _to float through me. It's a brief reprieve before I'm back to feeling empty, but at least it was there for a second.

"Well, considering I left my phone in my purse back at school, I can see why she would be worried," I say. "Can I use your phone to call her?"

Kurt's staring down at his screen, and as soon the question leaves me, he lets loose a surprised but delighted chuckle. "Oh my God! That is _so _weird! You just asked that, and she's calling me right now!"

My chuckle matches Kurt's, only mine is double the surprise and triple the delight. "You're joking, right?"

"Nope," he grins and rolls his eyes at Rachel's persistence, turning the phone my way to where I can read the screen. It flashes with 'CALL FROM RACHEL,' accompanied by a picture of her and Kurt sticking their tongues out and wearing green facial masks. I realize it's the same picture she has on her collage of photos above her bed.

"Gimme that," I say, eager fingers diving forward to snatch the phone from Kurt.

"Okay, okay, Miss Grabby Hands, jeez!" Kurt says with an affectionate but amused smirk.

I hit the 'Answer' button and hold the phone up to my ear, trying to control the way my stomach is twisting, but thankfully not in the horrible way it's been doing since earlier at school. This twist is of excitement rather than dread.

"Hello?" I say.

"Kurt?" Rachel whispers. "Oh my God, _finally_ you answer! I'm in the ladies' room on my third bathroom break during third period, which is about to end. I think my teacher suspects I have a bladder condition by this point."

I close my eyes at the sound of her voice and the theatrical way it rises and falls in hyperactive pitch. When I open my eyes again, I see Kurt staring at me curiously, so I pretend like I'm interested in the last half of my muffin instead.

"Rachel," I say. "It's – "

But she keeps right on talking, fast as an auctioneer. "I thought I saw you following Quinn out into the parking lot, but I couldn't be sure because everything was so hectic. But, Kurt, I am _so_ worried about her! And about you, too, since you aren't in class with me and Blaine right now, the latter of which is worried about you. So, are you with Quinn right now? Can I talk to her, please?"

I laugh, but it's still shaky around the edges. I wonder when it will be that my laughs return to being carefree and warm, without any negative feelings from today carrying into it. "Rach, this _is_ Quinn; you've been speaking to me the whole time. Calm down and take a breath, okay?"

"Quinn?!" My name bursts from her loudly enough that Kurt must hear it from across the table, for his eyebrows leap upward and he snickers to himself.

"Yep."

"Oh my God!" She quiets herself down, back to a more respectable volume. "Where _are_ you? I've been worried sick over you!"

"I had to get out of there; I couldn't stay at school even a second longer, so I… I ran. And, um, Kurt followed me, and now we're at The Lima Bean together."

"Well, I put your book bag and purse in my locker, and Noah used one of the forged nurses slips he has stored with him for me to give a pass to Principal Figgins that you went home sick. I'll have to ask Noah to do the same thing for Kurt, since he's with you and all." Rachel takes a deep breath from her rambling. "I wish I could be there with you, Quinn, but by the time I even realized you were running off, all of these teachers were in the hallway to break up the fight between Rick and Santana, and it was just way too chaotic for me to really process anything at first, so. I'm just…"

"Rachel," I cut in. "Please, calm down. You're going to give me a stomach ulcer – that is, if I don't already have one – from how stressed out you are."

"I'm worried about you, okay?" she says softly, and I think I hear tears catching in her voice. "I'm so sorry… This shouldn't have happened to you… Oh, Quinn, I'm so sorry!" She sniffles, and her voice has gotten thinner and thinner, almost to the breaking point – now I know she _is_ crying, and damn it, that just makes me want to start crying again, too.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," I say firmly. "You didn't do anything wrong. Look, I… I don't…" I run a hand through my hair. "Can we just talk about this later? I don't want to have a public breakdown in the middle of a coffee shop, and I'm sure you don't want to go back to class with mascara all over your face."

Rachel laughs so weakly that it's not really a laugh at all. "You're right, Quinn. You're right… I… I'll see you soon, okay? And when you see me, you can expect the biggest hug ever, okay?"

I smile at that. "Looking forward to it." And I am – more than she could possibly know.

"Can I talk to Kurt, please?" she asks.

"Sure."

I pass the phone back to Kurt, who was polishing off his muffin. "Hey, Rachel," he says. I watch as he nods to whatever she's saying, occasionally biting down on his lip or rolling his eyes to the ceiling. He goes "mmm-hmm," "yes," "thank you," and "okay, okay, I got it" before telling her to say hi to Blaine for him and then hanging up.

"That girl is a human chatterbox if there ever was one," he quips as he stashes his cell phone back into his pocket. "But would we really have her any other way?" He shakes his head, answering his own question. "No, I think not."

"She's definitely something all right," I say, shaking my head with affection.

"So," Kurt claps his hands together. "It's almost twelve now, and since we're playing hooky from school, we might as well make the most of it."

"What do you suggest?"

"The one thing that can make anything better, unfailingly," he says, a twinkle forming in his eyes.

"And what's that?" I ask with one eyebrow cocked.

"Why, _shopping_, of course!" His grin stretches a mile wide as his eyebrows dance.

His excitement is contagious enough for me to smile, just a little bit, but it's there nonetheless. And the fact that I feel any sort of happiness at all right now means that Kurt has helped me far more than I ever could have imagined.

* * *

><p>Kurt and I spend the next few hours shopping at Lima Mall.<p>

We have more fun than I thought would be possible for me right now, considering. But I'm laughing and smiling as we give each other fashion shows in the best clothing stores. Kurt does his job of making me forget about how much of a shitstorm my life has become waiting for me back at school.

He even buys me a few shirts and this one gorgeous skirt that shows off a bit more skin that I usually would display. Of course, I try to refuse letting him buy anything for me, but he waves me off and ignores my protests.

We pull up to Rachel's house about fifteen minutes after school ends. I'm still giggling at a joke Kurt just made, but the second he puts the car in park, it's like the magic of our shopping spree dissolves. Now I'm reminded of _why_ I needed this day off of coffee and shopping in the first place, and it's enough to make that familiar heaviness return to my shoulders.

"I had a lot of fun today, Kurt," I say. "Well, besides what happened earlier… But, um, the shopping was nice."

"They call it retail _therapy_ for a reason," he jokes, but there's too much seriousness in his smile for it to hold much mirth. I know he can sense the shift in my mood, in how I'm beginning to fall back into my earlier state of misery.

"Next time we hang out, maybe we can go get a massage or something," he suggests. "Or go to a movie? You're really fun to hang out with, Quinn, so I hope today won't be our last soir_é_e."

"It definitely won't," I say, impulsively leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. He blushes, just a little bit.

I unbuckle my seatbelt but don't open my door yet. I look over at him, our eyes connecting, and my voice turns soft and meaningful. "Thank you. For… Well, for everything, really."

He gives one nod, mouth drifting upward into a delicate smile. "You're welcome." He scratches the back of his neck. "Um, earlier, at The Lima Bean, you asked me why I was suddenly being so nice to you."

"Oh, yeah," I cringe at how I lashed out at him earlier. "Just forget I said that."

"No," Kurt says, eyes insistent as he shakes his head. "I'm glad you did, because I need to explain myself." He takes a deep breath. "I admit, I've been rather rude to you before today. Truth be told, I kind of despised you – I thought you were fake and too perfect, and I thought the only reason you were befriending Rachel out of the blue was for some nefarious purpose. But then today, at school, when you saw all those posters… I saw such pain in your eyes. I saw all of your arrogance and perfection gone in that moment. And it… Well, it reminded me of someone."

I listen to him, wondering where he's going with this, but touched that he's opening up to me. "Who?"

"Me," he says with a tiny chuckle. "It reminded me of _me,_ no matter how narcissistic that may sound. The truth is, I'd always hidden behind a façade of perfection – perfect clothing, perfect hair, the perfect quip to say to someone who insulted me. Much like I realize you do. But with me, when I went to Dalton and met Blaine…" He smiles this special smile to himself, his eyes filling with the most reverent and magical kind of affection. "He just… He broke away my façade. He made me not afraid to be who I really am, warts and all. And so when I saw you standing in the hallway, looking how I felt last year every time I was shoved into a locker or called a homophobic slur, well… It made me realize that everybody needs a Blaine in their life, someone who will be there for them no matter what. And seeing you so vulnerable… It… It made me want to be yours." He shrugs, his eyes filled with tears.

He sniffles and the tears spill down, so of course, my own eyes are now burning with moisture. "Come here," I say, holding out my arms. He unbuckles so he can meet me halfway in a tight hug.

"I'm so glad you were my Blaine today," I say, which prompts a shaky laugh from him. "You're amazing, and I don't know how I would have survived without you. _And_ you got me some adorable new clothes. So… Thank you again."

This time, _I'm_ the one who gets kissed on the cheek, his tears spreading to mingle with mine. "God, I'm falling apart," he says with another giggle, flicking his fingers under his eyes to dislodge the tear residue.

I smile at him, my heart swelling in a way that feels out of place amongst the lingering misery that still tightens my chest from this morning. "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Oh!" he says. "Okay, what's your phone number?" He pulls out his cell phone. "I'll text you my number and Blaine's. You can call either one of us if you need anything, like if Rachel's not around for whatever reason. But when I fall asleep at night, not even a tornado could wake me up, let alone a ringing phone, so you can call or text my night owl of a boyfriend if you ever need to talk late at night."

"All right, thanks," I say before giving him my cell phone number. After he's programmed it in, I give him a final hug before getting out of the car and walking up to the Berries' front door.

I turn to wave Kurt off as he drives away, his shiny black SUV disappearing down the street.

I smile to myself, thinking that maybe there is such a thing as guardian angels after all.

And maybe Kurt Hummel is mine.

I set my shopping bags down so I can get the spare key out from the hiding place the Berries told me about. But when I go to jiggle the key in the doorknob, I find that it's already unlocked. My eyebrows scrunch in confusion, since I know Leroy and Hiram are still at work and Rachel should be at Glee rehearsal.

I put the key back before grabbing my shopping bags in one hand and opening the door with the other. I slip into the house and close the door behind me with my foot, my eyes searching for a familiar face. The lights are on, so now I know for sure that someone is home.

"Hello?" I call out. "Anybody here?"

There's the sound of running footsteps, and then Rachel appears from the kitchen, her hair flying out behind her. She doesn't say a word as she bolts over to me, and it happens so fast that I don't have time to say anything, either. She launches herself onto me, her arms flinging around my shoulders, nearly sending me toppling to the floor. I drop my shopping bags at my feet and almost trip over them.

I release a stupidly surprised sound and catch my balance before wrapping my arms around her tiny little waist and pulling her even closer to me, my eyes fluttering shut as I breathe in her presence, her wonderful scent.

"Quinn," she whimpers into my ear. "Thank God."

My heart breaks open, pours out all over her. "It's me," I breathe, "I'm here."

"Thank God," she repeats, nestling her head into my neck, clinging tightly to me like a baby koala hanging from a tree. Her body heat blankets over me, and instantly I feel better than I have all day, than I have all _week_, in fact.

"Why aren't you at Glee rehearsal?" I murmur against her silky hair, unsure why we're speaking in such soft tones, but not wanting to be the one to break the magic nonetheless.

"Because being with you in your time of need is way more important to me right now."

I press my hands further into her back, feeling its smooth plane through the thin fabric of her dress.

We stand there holding each other for several seconds, silently, letting our hugs do the talking for us.

Eventually, I have to say something. "Um, Rach, maybe we should let go now. You're kind of squeezing off my air supply." I try for an easygoing laugh, but it comes out a bit high-pitched.

I don't want her to let go, of course, but it would be weird if I just let her keep clinging to me like this, right? That's not what normal friends do, right? … Ah, screw it, the feeling of her against me is so perfect that I don't even care if it will raise suspicions in her as to my true feelings.

But it's too late to take it back now. "Oh, right," Rachel says with an awkward giggle, pulling away from me as I pull away from her. We don't take a step back, though, so we're still standing toe-to-toe, filling each other's space.

"I have somewhere I want to take you tonight," she says. "Someplace special that I think will help you."

"But… But what about your date with Finn?" I ask, my eyes searching hers, almost scared of what I will find. Scared of this fact dawning on her, making her retract her offer in favor of her boyfriend.

But the reaction I get instead is enough to make the tiniest of smiles tug at my lips.

"What about it?" she asks with a slight raise of her eyebrows, as if seeing this as a nonissue that she can't understand why I bothered to bring up. "Your well-being is of far more importance to me than some date. I'll just reschedule with him; I'm sure he'll understand."

"And if he doesn't?" I blurt out.

"Then he isn't the guy I think he is," she says with a shrug that holds more simplicity than I believe the situation calls for. But hey, I'm not going to debate her on this.

"Where are we going?" I ask instead, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

"You'll see," she says. "Go get a warm jacket; it's supposed to be a bit chilly tonight. We'll leave the house at seven, when the sun starts to go down. Until then, I'll be in the kitchen, which you are not permitted to visit, seeing as how that's also a surprise."

I decide I'll get a jacket later, because right now, I need to go outside and be with my dog. I can't be alone right now, because the only thing keeping me from cracking apart is having company.

So, while Rachel sets out with her surprise, I lay in the grass petting Buttercup and trying not to let myself feel anything at all.


	33. Chapter 33

Ahhh! I am so sorry for how long it has taken me to write and post this chapter! I was crazy busy throughout the holidays, and then I went through a bit of a rut, and then I got back into writing this full-steam ahead, but it took me a lot longer than I was planning. My apologies for not replying to your reviews like I usually do, but please know that I appreciate them soooo very much! You guys are honestly just so nice and supportive. :'D

Fun fact: The one-year anniversary of when I first posted this story was on January 18! I had been planning on posting this chapter on that day, but obviously that didn't end up coming to fruition. But because it's been over a year since I first posted this story on here, I want to dedicate this chapter to the most important people: You guys!

Yes, this is dedicated to you, the readers! Because without somebody to listen, this particular version of Quinn and Rachel's tale would not have been heard. I would have been too discouraged to keep updating it. You guys help give this story life, and I cannot express how grateful I am for that. :') This may sound cheesy, but it's true - the process of writing this fanfiction and uploading it on here has changed my life, all for the better. I met my closest friends because of it; it made me look at social issues in a whole new light that has helped better myself; and I have just come so far since I first started writing this. There's still quite a bit of this left, even though this may sound like I'm saying goodbye, I'm not, haha, but I just really want to emphasize my gratitude for everything. :) And, hey, I'm almost at 300 reviews, which is an amazing milestone! So, please, keep those reviews coming, because I LOVE hearing from you guys!

I really hope this chapter was worth the wait. I'll try to have the next one up much sooner, but I don't want to make any promises. And without further ado, read on! :D

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE<strong>

After Rachel leaves a note telling her dads we went out for the night, we grab our jackets and pile into her car.

It's seven o'clock when she pulls out of the garage and down the driveway, navigating us straight toward the sunset.

The sky is ablaze with oranges, reds, yellows, and just a splash of darkest pink. It's breathtakingly gorgeous, a vermillion sun dripping fire as it sinks into the silhouettes of trees in the distance.

We listen to Rachel's iPod as she drives; she sings along to the music, but I don't sing at all, not finding it in my heart to be able to. Instead, I find my gaze captivated by the passing scenery as my mind focuses on wondering where she's taking us, because thinking about anything else is just too overwhelming.

About fifteen minutes later, we still haven't reached our mysterious destination, but Rachel turns down the music. "So," she says, clearing her throat. "How was your day with Kurt?"

"It was…just what I needed," I say. "We're definitely friends now; he's a really sweet and funny guy."

Even though I can only see Rachel's profile, I notice how she lights up at his, her brown eyes smiling along with her mouth. "Oh, I'm so happy to hear that, Quinn! You have no idea how badly I've been wishing that my two closest friends would finally put aside their differences and see how wonderful they both are."

I smile at that, just a little bit, but at least it manages to touch within my eyes. "Yeah, I'm glad, too. He bought me some clothes I'll have to show you when we get home."

"Ooh, a fashion show. Sounds like fun!" She flicks the blinker on and gets into the next lane.

Her demeanor has transformed into a serious one when she speaks again. Serious enough to make my smile fall right off my face, landing somewhere in my lap, where my hands are wringing together.

"Look," she says. "I didn't want to bring up…_you know_…just yet, but… I don't really know when will be a good time to say this, so." She clears her throat again, but now I think it's just to buy herself some extra time more than anything. "Santana got a week of at-home suspension."

"What?" I shriek, slapping my hands to my thighs in outrage. "What the hell for?"

"Um, for punching Rick…"

Oh my God. How did I forget about that? How could something like that have disappeared from my mind? Now it's all I can see – Rick's smirk, Santana's intense fury, her speed-walking after him, that tap on the shoulder, and then the loud _crack_ of her punch, the bright redness flying from his nose, and the animalistic cry tearing from his throat.

The scene replays in a loop through my mind for several long seconds; my jaw remains dropped, eyes bugged, heart racing. _Santana punched Rick, _I think. _Santana punched Rick FOR ME. And now she's being punished for it_.

I shake my head and drag a hand through my hairline, eyes shutting against a weary sigh. "Oh. My. _God_."

"Yeah, I think that was kind of the general reaction when it happened," Rachel says. "Only a lot more gasping."

"Well, what about Rick?" I demand. "Did he get suspended, too?"

Rachel shifts around in her seat in an uncomfortable manner, as if ants are crawling around in her underwear. "Uuuummm… Not exactly."

"You're kidding me, right?" I deadpan. "You have _got_ to be fucking _kidding_ me."

Rachel's eyes get big at my curse word, but she has the decency not to correct my language choice right now. "I'm afraid not. But look, Quinn, he'll get what's coming to him, I can promise you that. Karma has a way of – "

I interrupt her. "How did he not get into any trouble?!"

She clears her throat. "Well… Technically, there was no proof that he did it."

"What about the markers all over his hands?"

"That was explained away by an art project. There are no security cameras in school ever since Coach Sylvester ordered for them to be taken out, you know that. She didn't want to be caught pushing students when her temper flared, so she took care of the cameras last year."

I'm silent in response, choosing to slump down in my seat, cross my arms, and sulk.

"So," she continues, "Sadly and infuriatingly enough, there's just no real evidence that Rick did what he did. It's his word against ours, and I say 'ours' because myself, Noah, Brittany, Santana, and even Sam all talked to Principal Figgins today asking him to punish Rick and his friends, but he just couldn't without any proof."

Her words spark surprise within me. "Wait… _Sam_ pled on my behalf? He stood up for me?"

"Of course," Rachel says. "I mean, we were _all_ in quite a state, but he was perhaps the most visibly irate."

A smile nudges against my mouth. "Really?" Maybe this means Sam and I can go back to being friends. God, I hope so, even if hoping for _anything _at this point in my life feels bleak and pointless.

"Yes."

I don't know what else to say, so the rest of the car ride is in silence. Rachel turns the radio up a little more and we drive for ten more minutes before reaching our destination.

She parks in the fields near Lima Allen County Airport. Large trees loom around us, making the dappled rays of waning sunlight drip onto the hood of her modest-sized car.

"Why are we in the middle of an abandoned field?" I ask as she cuts the engine, turning toward her with a quirked eyebrow. "This is a bit too horror-movie for my taste."

"It's not scary; it's _nature_," she says with a gentle smile. "It's beautiful and totally safe, I promise." She reaches over to unbuckle my seatbelt; her hair whizzes against my nose, slapping me with a dose of lavender-vanilla.

"Come on," she says with a little laugh and a beckoning finger as she climbs out of her side of the car.

I lick my lips and follow suit from my side, closing the door behind me and zipping up my red-and-black-checkered jacket against the chill starting to creep through the air.

"How do you even know about this place?" I ask, sticking my hands deep into my jacket pockets. The ground below is thick grass with random tufts of wildflowers. The trees are tall but thin-branched, large gaps between and a break straight above that allows for a perfect view of the sky.

I hear the sound of Rachel zipping up her jacket, this fluffy brown thing with a big, floppy hood. She looks like a complete goober, swallowed whole by such a monstrous coat, that I smile to myself.

"This spot provides the best view of takeoffs and landings from the airport," she says, tilting her head back to look up at the sky. She speaks clearly, voice ringing through the crisp air, but she doesn't look away from the sky, as if her eyes are tethered to the wispy clouds above.

"When I was little, Papa went through a phase where he was really into aviation. He made model airplanes and always painted some variation of my name on the sides of them. He liked to bring me here, just me and him, because Daddy never got into planes. But Papa would point up at the sky and make up all these cool stories for each airplane, like where it was going and why, always something improbable but very fancy. We still come up here occasionally, but he's not really into it anymore, so we usually do other things for bonding time instead."

She looks at me, the softest of smiles on her face, nostalgia burning deep in her eyes. "It was my and his special place for a long time. But I still come here sometimes, when I need to get away from all the drama and just _be_. It's my 'Me Place' now… But I was thinking I could share it with you for tonight?" She bites down on her lower lip and gives a shy little shrug, sweet enough to melt a grown man's heart.

"Yeah," I say quietly, a blush warming my cheeks. "That would be nice. Thank you." I look down at my feet and fiddle with a lock of my hair, struck with sudden bashfulness.

The clearing feels too big for the two of us, _just_ the two of us, Rachel and me, and the weight of so many unspoken issues pressing down upon us.

She speaks again, pulling me from my thoughts, forcing my eyes to jump back to her. "Well, don't just stand there, silly! The best view of the planes are from the top."

"The top of _what?_"

She closes the few feet of distance between us and stretches out a hand, palm-up, fingers wiggling. "You'll see," she says with a mischievous brow-dance that matches her fingers.

I stare at her hand like an idiot. "I can't climb trees," I blurt, my teeth worrying away at my lip.

Rachel barks a laugh. "Who said anything about trees? Come on, Q – trust me."

I don't know if it's the fact that she called me 'Q,' or how prettily her eyes sparkle, or the simple power of those two words, '_trust me._'

But I do.

I trust her, my hand sliding into hers, palms squeezing as fingers curl tight.

My heart picks up speed as lightness drifts over me, radiating from the spot where our wrists overlap.

She tugs me to the driver's side of the car and steps onto the front wheel near the door, leaping onto the hood of her car in one agile move.

_Don't stare at her butt, _I warn myself.

But of course I do, because my willpower is thin as water around her: My eyes land on the perfect shape of her ass under that short dress, watching the way it clings for dear life against that perky tautness, seeing how her impossibly long, lean, _bare_ legs stretch out from it, muscles flexing, and –

"_Oof!_" I'm so busy ogling her that I trip on my own two feet as I try to step up on the wheel, my knee banging against the car. _That's what you get for being a perv_.

Rachel giggles and twists around from her spot standing on the hood, hand still gripping mine. "Am I going to have to drag you up here, or can you handle the one-foot climb? I mean, it's not exactly Mount Everest here, Quinn."

"Oh, ha-ha," I say and stick my tongue out, but I manage to get onto the hood quickly and without incident this time.

Once we're standing side-by-side, Rachel drops my hand so she can use both of hers to scramble onto the roof of her car. "Gimme a boost," she says, legs kicking awkwardly to find purchase against the windshield.

I make a point to turn my neck to the side so I can't stare at her butt, which is just _inches_ away from my face, and squat a bit so I can grab her feet by the ankles and help her shimmy up onto the roof of her car.

"Success!" she cheers once she reaches the top.

"I swear to God, if you pull a _Titanic_ and go all 'I'm king of the world' right now, I'm jumping off this thing and we're going back home," I say, only half-joking.

Rachel laughs loudly and richly at that, the sound making the pit of my belly grow warm as a smile grows across my face.

"I make no promises," she says. "But considering the probabilities of an iceberg coming up ahead are _very _small, I don't think we have anything to worry about."

I try to swing myself onto the roof, biceps straining to support my weight. It's harder than it looks to climb up here, and just like my little hobbit friend, I find my legs knocking against the windshield, trying and obviously failing to find a foothold against the sleek glass.

The things I do for Rachel, _God,_ and I thought _Santana_ was whipped.

"A little help here would be nice," I grumble. "We can't all be agile spider-monkeys like you."

"You scaled your backyard fence just last weekend; what happened to your Super Cheerleader Powers?"

"I have to be around Brittany and Santana for them to activate, I guess," I say, doing this stupid little jump to try and get onto the roof. All it accomplishes is making me feel like an idiot. "Now, are we going to banter back-and-forth all night, or are you going to actually help me up like I helped you?"

"Hmmm… Bantering's good. I think I'm content with bantering," Rachel says, a teasing lilt to her voice.

Are we…_flirting?_ It kind of feels like we are. But best friends don't flirt with each other, right? Especially not when they're both girls… Right, she's definitely not flirting with me, _jeez, Quinn, pull yourself together_.

"Rachel Barbra Berry!" I hiss. "You help me up _right now_, or I'll…scuff your car's paintjob with my shoe!"

Rachel emits an obviously fake, incredibly _loud_ gasp before leaning over the roof to hold out her hands. She grabs my wrists and giggles under her breath in this totally _evil_ manner, believe me, before helping to haul my sorry ass onto the roof with her.

"See?" she chirps as I position myself next to her, matching her cross-legged stance. "Not so bad, was it?"

"I think climbing trees would have been easier. Scratch that: climbing _Mount Everest _would have been easier."

The roof is much longer than it is wide, so we have to huddle close, our thighs overlapping and our sides and shoulders pressed together.

She's warm and tiny and so cuddle-worthy in that fluffy coat, smelling so good and looking so cute, that this situation of close proximity and beautiful nature scenery could almost be considered a dream if it weren't for all the other nightmarish factors that are my life.

"Hey, I'm supposed to be the dramatic one," she huffs with a jab of her finger to my ribs. I bat her hand away playfully, like a cat with a ball of yarn, and she laughs again, that unladylike kind with the little snort at the end. The kind that makes me want nothing more than to keep making her laugh again and again.

"You're smiling," she says, big brown eyes glowing with her own gentle joy.

"Yeah, I think that's what they call it when your mouth turns up at the corners and your teeth show," I say, my smile now turning into a smirk. "Very good, Rachel, you know basic vocabulary!"

She rolls her eyes but her grin stretches wider. "_No_, I just meant… I like it when you smile, and… You know…" She stares down at her hands, folded prim and proper within her lap. "I was worried I wouldn't get to see you smile again for a while after…everything that happened today."

Her words send a strange, contradicting blend of emotions to wash over me: hot and cold. The heat of her compliment, of her liking my smile, warms a fresh blush beneath my face and against my heart.

But the coldness of _why_ she was worried I wouldn't be smiling are the icy claws the scratch deep, deep down into my stomach, tap against the bottom of my lungs to make my next breath come out shallow.

The memory of today rushes in: the vandalized posters and all the whispers and the cruel laughter and Rick's bloody nose as his head reared back and how I couldn't stop running, running as if my life depended on it…

The coldness wins.

"Let's not talk about it," I blurt out, eyes squeezing shut as my fingers squeeze my stomach. I feel physically sick, bile threatening to rise in my throat. "_Please_. Let's not talk about it."

"Okay, y-yeah, okay!" she says quickly, pressing a hand against my upper arm. "I'm sorry, Quinn, I shouldn't have brought it up this early."

"Yeah, well, bringing it up _ever_ will be too early for me, so let's just drop it," I snap, my eyes still closed, so tightly that I see random shapes of light bursting against the darkness of my lids.

"I'm sorry," Rachel says; I can hear the apology searing through each syllable of her word, dripping sadness and sympathy and remorse. "Please don't be mad at me. We don't have to talk about it, okay?"

I peel my eyes open and look at her, at how her brow is creased and her mouth is digging upside down. "Of course I'm not mad at you," I insist.

And it's true, because, how could I ever? How could _anyone_ ever be mad at such an adorable little dork, now smiling a relieved smile at me from within that floppy hood?

"I'm just mad at…_life_, I guess," I say, rubbing a hand against the back of my neck and sighing deeply.

Rachel's small smile droops right off again at that. She reaches out a hand and places it on top of my knee; I can feel the warmth of her perfect palm, of her entire perfect _being_, soaking through my white Capri pants, straight to the skin and bone underneath. She gives my knee a squeeze before releasing, and it's pathetic how much I miss her touch.

I want her all over me, holding me, stroking me, and not even in a perverted way.

I just want _her_. So much that it aches deep within, like a second heartbeat. It throbs when she's near me, races when she touches me, and breaks when she pulls away.

Her voice smacks me out of my reverie. "Just tell me what I can do to help."

She sounds so strong and sure, like she's ready to be my rock. Her doe-like eyes are so desperate to please.

Something about her eyes emboldens me. When I speak, my voice is husky with all the different emotions fighting against each other to rise to the surface. I want to break eye-contact, but I can't, as if hers are amber-brown vortexes sucking me in.

"You're going to sit here with me," I say, "and hold my hand. And tell me a story."

Her lips quirk up, eyes brighten. "I can do that."

My heart thuds right in my throat as I hold out my hand, palm up, hoping the slight twitch of my fingers is unnoticeable. I've never asked her to touch me before.

I know it's just an innocent handhold to her, but it's so much more to me. I feel like I'm asking her to hold my whole heart in her fist, relying on nothing but trust that she won't crush it.

She laces our fingers together, her palm covering mine, gripping my hand at the perfect pressure, the perfect temperature – the perfect everything, really. Her hand is so soft and smooth, but with this warm dryness that makes me think of baked bread fresh from the oven.

My heartbeat calms down, my breathing turns more relaxed, and I feel a distinct sense of comfort wash over me. It's crazy how just the feeling of her skin pressing into mine is enough to make me feel safe and protected. And so cared for, so loved.

God all I want is to feel loved, _be _loved.

It's enough to bring tears to my eyes. I stare up at the evening sky, growing grayer with the coming darkness of night. I hope she doesn't notice how quickly I'm blinking, or how my lips are pursed to keep away a tremble.

Rachel rubs her thumb up and down the side of my hand in these slow, purposeful strokes. Each caress sparks over my skin, like flint striking together to light a fire. Heat melts through my veins, radiating out from the pad of her thumb. I shiver and hope she thinks it's just from the dropping temperature around us from nightfall.

We huddle close together, sides squished, her puffy coat rubbing into my long jacket. I stare down at our intertwined hands, mesmerized, as she stares up at the pearly, gray sky and speaks, her beautiful voice filling the clearing, stealing through my ears and straight to my throbbing heart.

"When I was a little girl," she says, "about ten years old or so, I wanted to be a queen."

A smile tugs at my lips at the idea of a mini-Rachel seated on a gilded throne and wearing a gemstone-studded cape too big for her tiny frame.

"You did?" I tear my eyes away from the thumb now circling over the back of my hand and look into those big brown depths.

She smiles back at me, as tender as the affection that burns toward me with each blink of curly lashes. God I could just sit here and stare at her all night, and it still wouldn't feel like long enough.

"I did." She squeezes my hand before resuming her thumb's massaging trek. "And you know me – once I set my mind on something, no matter how big or small or utterly _ridiculous_, I go all out to achieve it."

I lean closer into her, rest my head into the crook of her shoulder, and close my eyes. I just breathe, listen, and try to forget that anything else exists beyond this forest, this car, and this perfect girl.

"I wanted my name to be – get this – Queen Chrysanthemum Barbra Berry, or Queen Chrissie for short."

A giggle bursts from my lips. "Queen _Chrysanthemum?_ I don't even know if I could have pronounced that when I was ten."

She chuckles and lolls her head down to rest her chin on top of mine. Her slender throat digs into my scalp; each word she speaks sends a subtle vibration to tickle into my skull.

"Well, I had a very advanced vocabulary. And my dads' extensive talks of gardening when I was younger may have attributed to me liking that particular name."

"So, what kind of adventures did Queen Chrissie go on?"

"Oh,_ fabulous _ones! I had this pink blanket with, of course, gold stars on it, and I tied it around my neck like a royal robe. I wore these high-heels my daddy bought for me that were, like, two sizes too big, and I pranced around my room barking orders at my stuffed animals. But of course, in my imagination, they weren't just stuffed animals – _nooo_, they were my royal subjects!"

I giggle again, louder this time, warm enough to chase away the chilly breeze drifting from the darkening sky. "Please tell me you didn't send them to the stocks if they disobeyed you."

"Oh no; worse than that." I can _hear_ the smile in her voice, stretched high with amusement and mirth. "I'm not proud to admit to my tyrannical rein. I would sing these elaborate performances for them, and if I felt that a certain stuffed animal or doll wasn't being appreciative and complimentary enough, I would say" she breaks into a silly, high-pitched, cartoonish voice of a queen "_off with your head!_"

"Oh my God!" I laugh and clap my other hand on top of our joined ones, curling around our tangled fingers to yank her even further against me. Her fragrance fills my senses as I stare at the clouds, disappearing as the black velvet night and twinkling stars begin to move in. "_Please _tell me you didn't _actually_ chop their heads off, with, like, gardening shears or something! Because that is seriously just sociopathic of you, Rach."

Rachel turns her head so that her cheek is pressing just above my ear. Her laughter tickles inside and makes me shiver again, goosebumps popping all along the side of my neck.

"No, no, of course I didn't actually cut off their heads! I just hid them behind a pillow to pretend like they had been exiled from my kingdom, er, _queen_dom."

I'm smiling now, really smiling, and it aches, like stretching the soreness from a cramped muscle. "Hmmm, not _much_ better; I mean, it's still pretty harsh, but at least you didn't _kill_ them."

Rachel giggles. "I couldn't do that, because then I wouldn't be able to reuse them as an audience member again the next day. A queen deserves her full stadium of supporters."

"So, what made you give up your dream of becoming a queen?"

"Mind you, this _dream_ of mine only lasted for a week or two before I went back to my _true_ ambitions of Broadway star."

"Yes, but _why_ did you go back to chasing Broadway instead of lusting after your own throne?"

Rachel shifts in this guilty manner. I grin – this is going to be good. "_Raaacchheelll,_" I sing. "Tell me."

"I may have, um, gotten _too_ caught up in method acting the role of Queen Chrissie. One night, Daddy and Papa were gamely going along and pretending to be my court jesters. Daddy was juggling tomatoes – he can juggle very well, actually; he'll have to show you sometime – anyway, he was juggling, and when he was done, I clapped for him and was very impressed. But Papa, he, uh, well…" She clears her throat and I lick my smiling lips as I wait for her to continue.

"He decided that, as the jester, he would impress me by doing a dance routine, and he's not exactly the best dancer, so, when he was done, I just…" She huffs at the memory, this mixture of guilt, embarrassment, and just a smidge of amusement. "I just wasn't impressed, and I got so caught up in pretending to be the queen, that I grabbed one of Daddy's tomatoes that he'd used to juggle and…"

"_And?_" I'm struggling not to break into laughter now, for I fear I know exactly what's coming. "Did you cut the tomato up and serve them a nice salad in gratitude of their efforts?"

Rachel snorts, this unladylike sound rife with humor. "No! Okay, I…" her voice drops into a shameful mumble "…might have thrown the tomatoes at Papa and yelled at him to go to the stocks."

I burst into laughter, muffling my mouth into her shoulder to try to confine the loudness of its mirth. "No you _didn't!_" I wheeze between chortles. "You _threw tomatoes at your dad_, oh my God, _no way!_"

Rachel dissolves into hysterics, deliciously uncontrolled guffaws that burst from deep within her, up her cackling throat. "I-it's not f-_funny!_" she tries to insist between laughter. "I got grounded for a _week _because of that! Papa was not exactly happy that I ended up ruining his favorite white sweater."

Tears roll down my heated cheeks, tears of joy and laughter. It's like I'm leaking out the suppressed happy emotions that have been struggling to rise past all of the negativity and surface within me.

"You are too much," I say. "I wish we had been friends when we were younger. I would have loved to see what Little Rachel was like." I swipe away the moisture from my face and grin at her.

She grins back, teeth gleaming white in the silvery moonlight that's just begun to spill from the sky. "I wish we had been friends back then, too. But at least we're friends now, right?"

I squeeze my hand over our mingled ones again. "_Best_ friends."

Rachel's face lights up as something dawns on her. "Are you hungry?"

My eyebrows scrunch at the subject change, but I'm still smiling. "Um, yeah. Why?"

"You do remember that I was in the kitchen back at my house, right?"

"…Yeah…"

"Well, I was putting together a surprise for you in there!"

"Really?" My smile tightens with surprise, crinkling at the corners of my eyes.

"Yes!" She pulls her hand out of mine and stands up. I stare down at my lonely fingers, hating the way coldness washes over them in her absence.

I follow her orders, slipping off the roof, down the windshield, and sprawling out on the hood while I wait for her to finish getting something out from the back of the car. I'm able to collect myself and gather my wits again for the minute or so I'm left alone.

Rachel climbs up beside me with a picnic basket and makes herself situated, humming a tune I don't recognize. It sounds light and happy, carefree and liberated.

I release a half-surprised, half-delighted sound of my own. "A _picnic?_ On your car? For me?"

"For _us_," she beams. I love the sound of that so much that I smile back, though mine is shyer, my teeth nibbling at my lower lip and my eyes unable to meet hers.

She starts pulling out the contents of the woven basket and sets them out in front of us on the hood. She names each item as they come into view.

"Two water bottles; two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches – I know how much you like them because you have them, like, _every day_ for lunch, and I made sure to use strawberry jelly instead of grape, and smooth peanut butter instead of chunky; two green apples; two snack-sized bags of pretzels; and two vegan chocolate-chip cookies that are_ deeeelicious_."

"Wow," I say, gawking in amazement at all the food. Two of everything, like Noah's Ark in a meal. "No one's ever made a picnic for me before."

I'm blushing, I know it, like a total idiot, and I look at her out of eyes that keep darting away from hers in this stupidly bashful way.

"Well then," Rachel says with a gentle smile. "You haven't been hanging out with the right people. Because you, Quinn Fabray, are totally picnic-worthy."

I can only grin at that while we dig into the food and lean back against the windshield, legs sprawled in front of us. At one point, her leg shifts and ankle hooks with mine, but neither of us makes a move to scoot out from the other.

"Everything tastes really good," I say. "Thank you."

"You're more than welcome! And – ooh, look!" She bubbles up and jabs a finger at the sky. "The first takeoff of the night!"

We watch as the mechanical, birdlike figure of the bright airplane slices through the inky blackness above us, reverberating the air with its sound of speed and possibility.

For a moment, I'm jealous of the people inside of it – they could be going _anywhere_: Paris, England, Scotland, Africa, or even just to New York. They're leaving behind Lima and Ohio and this small town of small-minded people.

But then I look over to my left, at the petite brunette diva laying beside me, eyes alive with the smile nestled upon her face as she watches the airplane.

I look at the food she took the time to make for me, and I look out at the tree-rung clearing of the special, secret place she chose to bring me and share with me.

And I don't feel jealous of those people in the plane anymore.

Because right here and right now, I can't think of anywhere else in the world I'd rather be.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_"Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars? I could really use a wish right now, wish right now, wish right now. Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars? I could really use a wish right now, wish right now, wish right now."_

I trail off from softly singing as I watch yet another airplane cut through the darkness above. Rather than going away from Lima Airport, this one is travelling to there, and I let myself imagine for a moment that it carries important people coming here to do important things, like a princess from another land on a mission to rescue her captured love.

The airplane passes between two stars, which wink coyly, as if they share a secret that the universe can't know. I wink back at them. They glitter like the world's finest diamonds.

"Hey, I know that song," Rachel says, laughing a sound laced with pleasant surprise.

"Yeah?" I say. "It's really catchy, and it's so fitting toward my life right now." I laugh, too, but mine has no 'pleasant' and no 'surprise' to it; it's all bitter edges and stale taste, bubbling up my throat like bile.

I lift up my forefinger and point it at the plane; I trace its path through the black sky, helping it weave through twinkling stars, and trail underneath the glow of the crescent moon, looking so much like a mouth and positioned at such an angle that it could pass for either a frown or a smile. Finally, the plane bursts through a patch of clouds before disappearing from view; it leaves a trail of billowing gray disintegration in its wake, the swirl of the cloud like the gentle smoke from a birthday candle curling up and away after its been blown out and a wish has been made.

I lower my hand back to my side and wait for another airplane to light up the sky like some strange, bulky-winged creature.

Rachel is quiet; I angle my head to the side so I can look at her. I can only see her profile, highlighted by the silvery glow of the moon. There's her bright eye, blinking lashes so long and curly that I'm surprised they don't get tangled together. There's that big hump of her beautiful nose; I resist the urge to reach over and tap it with my fingertip. Her chiseled cheekbone and the defined structure of her jaw appear even stronger, like cut steel, with the combination of moonlight and shadow angling them out.

She's staring up at the sky, as if in her own little world. Like a little kid, I want to get her attention. I _always want to have her attention. So, I use the method as surefire as poking a dog with a stick, the verbal equivalent of shaking her shoulders until she turns toward me: I mention Finn._

"So, do you think Finn will be upset with you for ditching him tonight?" I ask, tone innocent, but hungry eyes latched to her face, gauging her reaction.

She lolls her head toward me and lifts her shoulder in a shrug; for a brief moment, the furry collar of her coat makes her neck disappear. Her eyes lock with mine, brilliant but unreadable. "Kind of."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I already know that he's kind of mad at me. When I called him to cancel, I asked if he was angry, and he said, quote, 'kind of,' unquote. Then he hung up."

"Well, _that's mature of him." I can't resist the dig._

"It was to be expected," she says, sounding like she doesn't know whether to be on the defense or offense. "But he'll get over it."

"And if he doesn't?"

Rachel's lips pull up but not far enough to reach her eyes, as if they bear a weight too heavy. "He will."

I look away from her, the eye-contact beginning to burn, and stare at the sky, my bones feeling tired. _You defend him too much, I want to say, but don't. There are so many things I want to say but don't, because I can't, and each time I swallow the words back down, I fear for the time in the future when they will all come spewing up at once._

"So…" Rachel says, and her tone is so much gentler now, quiet enough to almost get carried away on the chilly air. "Do you want to talk about it now?"

My entire body tenses. "Talk about what?"

"You know…About what happened at school today."

"Nope," I say, the one word as sharp as a dozen knives.

"Then _when will you want to?" Rachel asks, prodding but not impatient. "You can't ignore it forever, Quinn. Especially not when you're going to have to go back to school on Monday and face your tormentors."_

"You're asking the wrong question, Rachel. You're asking when will I _want to talk about it, and the answer to that is a big fat 'never,' okay?" I snap. "Would you want to relive one of the all-time _worst experiences of your entire life?"__

"Hey, hey," Rachel scoots even closer to me, her side pressing tight to mine, and tucks an arm around my shoulders. She lifts her other hand up to my face and turns it toward her, forcing my eyes to meet hers, which are so open and tender that I immediately want to slap myself for lashing out at her. "It's okay. You don't have to talk about it. I'm sorry for pressuring you. It's okay."

She strokes her fingertips down my cheek before cupping at my jaw; my eyes close and fill with tears, tickling at my lashline as my chin begins to quiver within her hand.

She gives me a quick, consoling squeeze before tracing her hand back up my face – making me shiver in response – and brushes away the tears that are beginning to fall.

"I just don't understand why all these bad things keep happening to me!" My voice is scratchy, my throat is too tight, and the words rip out in a pathetic little wail. I open my eyes and another stream of tears releases.

Soon, I'm openly sobbing, curled against Rachel as if my body is the crescent moon above and she is the sky holding me up, or maybe the gleaming stars that never stop shining light and purpose. Both of her arms now wrap around me like lifelines, cuddling my head against her chest. My tears soak against the suede material of her coat, and my whole body is one trembling mess, and I keep making these stupid little whimpering sounds, but I can't stop myself from coming apart in her arms.

"_Shhh," she keeps saying, so softly and sweetly, and it makes me flashback to when my parents kicked me out and I went to her house and she started singing Adele for me to calm down, and great, now I'm crying even harder._

"Please," I beg, my chest heaving with breaths, "Please, Rachel, just make it go away; it hurts so much."

Her arms tighten their hold protectively, one hand rubbing circles against my back while the other squeezes against my waist. The hand on my back massages upward until her fingers land at the base of my skull, brushing the tangles gently from my hair.

"It's okay," she whispers. "You can cry. Let it all out, sweetie."

I listen to the steady thump of her heartbeat, wishing my own could be that sturdy. My hands are fisting at the collar of her coat, so tight that I'm surprised I don't rip the seam right out. But eventually, my muscles relax, my sobs subside, and the tears stop gushing. I use the back of my arm to wipe at my face, sniffling, and wonder when it will finally be that my heart stops crying, too.

"I don't want to go back to school," I whine. "I'm scared!"

Rachel pecks a kiss to the top of my head, and I feel like a little girl again for a sweet moment, safe and sound and no real problems to harm me.

"You'll have me, and Brittany, and Noah, and Sam, and the rest of the Glee Club," she reminds me. "And Santana, too, even if she won't technically be there since she's suspended.

"And, you know," she adds, "it's _okay to be scared. But if there's one person I know who'll make it through all of this, it's you." Her tone is firm and final; I peel my face from her chest and pull my neck back a bit so I can look her in the eyes._

She smiles, very small but very warm, and I can only stare at her, my eyes squinting and head shaking back and forth. "I don't get it. Why do you always think so highly of me? Like, why do you think I'm so much stronger and braver than I really am?"

"Because you're _you," she says simply, as if that's the only explanation she needs to give. It just makes me even more confused, though; she must see this in my eyes, for she elaborates._

"You're _Quinn Fabray!" Her tone isn't wistful, but rather affectionate and admiring and a dash of _duh. "You've gone through so many awful things, and yet you keep rising up better than before. If I had to deal with my parents kicking me out, an existential crisis, my religion turning against me, and some idiots at school publically humiliating me, I would have already run away to stay with my aunt and uncle in Cleveland. But you keep dusting yourself off and rising from the ashes, and that is _amazing, okay?"___

Her brow furrows as she bites down on her lower lip, eyes flicking back and forth slowly between mine, as if she's searching for something but doesn't know what it is. "_You are amazing."_

I blink, taken aback, and start to blush, just a little bit. My heart aches out its next beat, but in a far lighter way than before. "You're never going to give up on me, are you?"

Her mouth splits back into a grin; she giggles and shakes her head, eyes sparkling. "Nope; never. Sorry, but you're stuck with me."

I grin back and feel the corners of my eyes crinkle. "Good. You're stuck with me, too."

Rachel's eyes soften. She raises her hand and smoothes the hair out of my face and off my tear tracks. My eyes flutter closed and breath hitches. She hasn't touched me like this, like she's taking care of me and I am a porcelain doll, in a long time. I didn't know how much I missed it until now.

She tucks locks of my hair behind one ear, then the other, so slow and tender. She moves down my neck, adjusting my jacket's neckline so it lines up evenly, and stops after she's tugged the end of the hemline back into place, fingertips brushing my thighs.

"There," she says, voice a bit husky. "All better."

I open my eyes and smile shyly at her. She leans in and kisses my forehead; I melt under her touch, heart fluttering and forehead radiating heat from the spot her lips caressed.

"You're going to be just fine, Q," she says. "I promise."

I bite at my bottom lip. "I like it when you call me Q."

"Well, I like _calling you Q, so." Rachel ducks her head, almost bashfully, and my eyes jump all over her face – her forehead; the smooth strip of skin between her eyebrows; the outline of her mouth; that lone beauty mark decorating her cheek._

I'm overwhelmed with the urge to just lean in and kiss her. Those lips are so perfect and plump…She is _so gorgeous…She called me Q…She lifts her head back up, eyes smoldering into mine, and I wonder what she's thinking and suddenly I can't think at all…._

I drop my mouth toward her, riding on an impulse for all of a second before switching gears and landing the kiss on her cheek instead, but close enough to the side of her lips that I can almost feel their outline as I press mine to her soft skin.

She tenses as I pull away, and I wonder with a fresh blush if she could tell that her cheek hadn't been my destination at first.

"Wh-what was that for?" she asks.

"Because I wanted to," I say with a little shrug. "And because you're pretty amazing yourself, Rach."

She looks like she wants to say something but doesn't know what, so she just smiles, her eyes squinting a bit as if I'm a puzzle she hasn't figured out how to decipher yet. So, I take her hand in mine, and we snuggle together as we watch the planes come and go in the black expanse above.

"Rachel?"

"Hmmm?"

I want to say so many things, don't know where to start, but settle on: "Thank you."

Rachel squeezes my hand and says, "No, thank _you."_

I close my eyes and let a smile curl at my lips, because maybe my life is far from perfect, and I am definitely _not looking forward to going back to school, but tonight exists just between me and Rachel._

And nobody can take that away from us.


	34. Chapter 34

Once again, I find the Author's Note starting with me apologizing to you guys for such a long time in between updates. :-/ What can I say but that I'm sorry and that I'll try to get updates out faster? Thank you all so much for sticking with me and this story, and for all of the lovely reviews and follows and such. :D You're all the best!

I noticed there were some formatting issues with the last chapter, where there were all of these random chunks of italics. I tried fixing it but only half of it was fixed, so I don't know what to tell you other than that I hope it didn't annoy you too much and detract from the overall reading experience. Since I've taken so long to update, I'm going to have the next chapter either up tonight or tomorrow, and that is a promise! (And, yes, I already have it completely written, so it's a sure thing, baby. Well... I don't want to jinx it, so... let's just say the probability is *very* likely.)

Final thing: Angst warning for what you are about to read. I'm sorry, but if angst ain't you thang, then you're going to want to skip out on this one and the next chapter (but, then again, if you dislike angst, then you probably stopped reading this story *many* chapters ago, haha.) If you start getting too overwhelmed, just picture fluffy bunnies and happiness and rainbows, okay? :)

So, to make a long story short - "Too late!" - please read on, hopefully enjoy, and leave me a nice, healthy helping of reviews while you're at it. It's good for the soul. ;)

* * *

><p>CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR<p>

**Monday**

The rest of the weekend flies by in a blur.

I try to make it last as long as possible, to stretch it out like taffy, but my attempts are useless. It feels like the minutes are drops of water in my cupped hands, and no matter how hard I try to hold on, they keep running over and dripping through my fingers.

When Rachel and I got back home on Friday night, I found a slew of text messages and missed phone calls on my cell. Most of them were from the usual suspects – Santana, Brittany, Puck, and even Sam – but there was also one from Kurt and another from Blaine. And there was even a simple "hello" text from Nancy Pettison, fellow prom queen nominee and the daughter of the preacher at my old church (I ignored that one).

Nothing like a good old public humiliation to catch people's interest again.

Santana wanted to come over on Saturday, but her parents grounded her when they found out she'd been suspended for a week. I thanked her for standing up for me, but she brushed it off and jokingly thanked _me_ for providing her with the perfect opportunity to punch Rick once and for all.

Puck came over on Sunday, just for a few hours to watch a movie with me and Rachel. We talked about everything _but_ what happened at school or my sexuality in general. I deemed it strictly off-limits to talk about after my breakdown with Rachel in the forest; ignore the problem and it goes away, right? … Okay, I know that's far from true, but I figured I earned a day or two of blissful avoidance before having to face things at school all week.

I made Rachel promise not to tell her dads about The Incident. She was adamantly against the idea at first, until I reminded her of how she never told them about her bullying issues in the past and that it wasn't fair to worry them since they couldn't do anything anyway, not being my legal guardians. My own parents have made it clear they want nothing to do with me, so I'm on my own when it comes to getting adults involved.

Monday morning arrives without apology, the sun rising in the sky and the clock ticking away and the world spinning by. Life doesn't care when you want it to stop; it just keeps on going. It feels like the more you want it to slow down, the faster it speeds up.

Rachel and I drive our separate cars to school. After what happened on Friday, with how helpless I felt with not having my car in the parking lot and having to run away from school, I've decided to always use my own car now so I never feel that helpless again.

Rachel and I have just gotten out of our cars, side-by-side in the parking lot.

She walks over to me, to where I stand with feet frozen on the pavement. I'm staring at the school with wide-eyes and a grim mouth, the blood draining from my face but pounding faster in my heart.

The building is bigger than normal, imposing and darker, like a cursed Gothic castle from some nightmare fairytale.

I don't want to go in there. I want to get back in my car, drive home, and spend the rest of the day – the rest of my _life _– under the covers.

Rachel holds out her hand, palm-up. "You ready?"

_No_. "As I'll ever be," I say, slipping my hand into hers and taking a deep, rattling breath.

Our fingers locked tight together, I roll back my shoulders and fall into step with her toward the school.

We cross the parking lot too quickly and reach the front doors too soon. My palms are turning clammy, my stomach is tossing waves, and my heart is thudding out a sickening beat.

Rachel pauses, her other hand on the handle of the double-doors. "It's going to be okay, Quinn," she says firmly, big brown eyes emphatic upon mine. "I'll be right here at your side, okay?"

My throat is too tight to squeeze any words out, so I settle for a weak nod.

"Don't ever let them see you sweat," she says.

We push open the doors and enter the school, even though my mind is screaming at my feet to turn around and go back. Go back to the parking lot, go back home, go back a couple of years or so.

At first, everything is fine. Well, besides the cold fear seeped into my bones and the anxiety that makes me jump at small noises.

I notice that all of the tarnished campaign posters have been taken down. Not even the unsoiled original ones have been put back up, so my face is wonderfully devoid of the walls. That alone helps me to breathe without feeling like I'm going to pass out.

"The posters are gone," I say, releasing a relieved breath I hadn't known I was holding.

"Of course they are," says Rachel. "They were gone by the end of second period, throughout which most everyone from Glee had permission to skip to help take them down."

"Thanks."

"It was the least we could do, really."

The closer we get to my locker, the more people start trickling into the building.

Soon, the staring begins.

Heads turn my way as if they're human-sized puppets and I hold their strings, making them follow my every move.

My shoulders stiffen, heart quickens. But I keep looking forward, my eyes fixed to my locker, not allowing anyone the satisfaction of staring back.

Next, there's the whispering, accompanied by pointing or, worst of all, laughter, some hushed and some downright cackles.

I don't know if it's my grip that's tightening around Rachel's hand, or Rachel's tightening around mine, but I can feel my knuckles straining like piano chords and the circulation cutting off.

Rachel starts chatting in my ear, about everything but nothing, maybe to try and distract me, maybe to engage me in casual conversation to help me prove to everyone that I don't care what they think, or maybe both. Either way, I'm grateful, but unable to talk much, settling on '_mmm-hmmm_'s and '_uh-huh_'s.

We pass by a guy and his girlfriend, and it's the first sign of direct conflict. The guy says, loud enough for anyone in a yard-radius of him to hear, "Aw, look, they're holding hands! Does that mean the two lezzies are coming out together?"

They both laugh at that.

I trip a little, my foot skidding on the tile, but Rachel pulls me along.

My face bursts into a blush.

"Ignore them," she stage-whispers, glaring at the couple. I see from my peripheral vision that they're smirking after us. "They were obviously raised in a barn."

I want to whip around and yell at them, rip them to shreds, make them feel as small as I do right now.

I don't say anything.

I do consider dropping Rachel's hand.

We round the corner and I flinch, as if preparing for someone to pop out from the shadows and attack.

Someone is drinking a Slushie, a scrawny-looking freshman, but he doesn't pay us any attention as we walk by him. He's one of the _only_ people not to, but it makes me feel just the slightest burst of victory.

It also reminds me of the spare change of clothes tucked away in my backpack, just in case.

_Maybe I can be invisible after all, _I think.

A buff guy wearing a football jersey leers at us and wolf-whistles. My stomach twists tighter.

_Yeah, forget that pipe dream_.

I reach my locker after what feels like walking a minefield. One false step and my entire façade will be blown to bits.

I have to let go of Rachel's hand in order to turn my combination lock. My palms are sweaty, so I wipe them off on my jeans, blushing at the idea that they might have grossed her out.

She stands next to me with her arms crossed like a bodyguard, glaring at anyone who walks by, her scowl darkened in a threatening manner.

In reality, Rachel's about as scary as a baby penguin, but I appreciate the gesture.

When I'm finished with my locker, we begin the trek to hers on the other side of the school. I don't take her hand again. I pretend like I have to use both of mine to hold my books.

There's more staring and whispering and pointing, and each new pair of eyes to jump my way, each sound that carries my name with an insult, makes my nerves stretch thinner. By the end of the day, I don't know if I'll have any left at all.

"Quinn! Wait up!"

My entire body tenses all over and I think I have a mini heart-attack.

Rachel and I turn in unison to face the person running toward us, and when I see who it is, my shoulders sag in relief.

"Hey, Brittany," I say weakly as she skips to a stop in front of us.

Unfortunately, she's attracted even _more_ attention, if that's even possible.

She gives Rachel a hug, then me. Mine is longer, more crushing, Britt's arms clutching at my waist as if afraid to let me go. My arms stay pinned to my side, afraid to even move.

My eyes zip around and accidentally make eye-contact with a Cheerio member, a girl named Marcie whom I used to be friends with back when I was on the squad. She looks disgusted at my and Brittany's embrace; she shakes her head at me, mouths _ewww_, and swivels pointedly back to her locker.

I feel like I might throw up, right there in the middle of the hallway, but thankfully, _mercifully_, Brittany releases me and takes a step back. I try to forget about Marcie and her disgust and that hateful shape of her mouth, the way it carved out that word of revulsion, the way it was silent and yet loudest of all.

"Everyone's looking for you," Brittany is saying loudly, _too_ loudly, and I feel mean but I just want her to shut up and go away.

"I think you mean everyone's looking _at_ me," I say, aiming for it to come out loud and sassy, maybe even paired with a menacing glare to all the nosy people in the hallway. In reality, it comes out barely a whisper, and my eyes don't budge from Brittany's.

"Who's 'everyone'?" Rachel asks.

"Um, like, the entire Glee Club!" Brittany says. My blood freezes at the idea of seeing my friends and wondering how they'll act around me now. "They're spread out throughout the school to track you down. Think of us as, like, your entourage body-guard people."

"Oh," I say, the word dropping out rather stupidly. "Um, thanks, but I _really_ don't want any special treatment."

"Nonsense!" Rachel says. "I think that's a _great_ idea and incredibly thoughtful of everyone. There's safety in numbers, and as much as I'd like to help, I don't think my petite build and lack of physicality will do wonders in helping keep tormenters away from you."

She has a point. Still, I'm hesitant. "I guess…"

"Perfect!" Brittany cheers. "All right then, allow me to escort you two to your next destination. If anyone gets too close to us, I'll high-kick them in the face." She holds out both arms, elbows crooked, and doesn't start walking again until Rachel's linked with one and I'm on the other.

We reach Rachel's locker without incident.

That's the good news.

The bad news is, Finn's there waiting for us.

Or, more aptly, waiting for Rachel.

"Hey," he says, not making eye-contact with me or Brittany. He lowers his voice and steps toward Rachel, places a big paw of a hand on her shoulder.

"Are you okay?" he asks, voice lowered and eyes worried.

Rachel shrugs off his hand and pays attention to her locker combination. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"There's just, like, all these people around, and most of them keep looking over at us. I don't want you to get hurt."

"I'm_ fine_," she insists, but with a gentler tone, gracing him with a brief smile. "Thank you, Finn. But, really, your concerns should be directed toward Quinn, not me."

"Or me," Brittany pipes up. "'Cause, like, _hi_, I'm here, too. Even though you're ignoring me and Quinn."

"I'm not ignoring you guys!" Finn says too quickly, his face going a splendid shade of red. He barely manages to look at us, and when his eyes fall on me, they widen a little.

"Hello," I say, lifting one hand in a half-hearted wave.

"Hey," he nods in my direction, his eyes trained back on Rachel.

My hands curl into fists against the back of my books. Anger simmers in my chest, flares my nostrils with quickened breaths, like a dragon preparing to huff out fire. "Go on, Finn," I say, my tone measured and careful. "Ask me."

"Um, ask you what?" he says, at least having the decency to maintain eye-contact this time. He folds his arms over his chest, almost in a challenge, but his eyes are big and confused, so I really don't know how to read him.

Rachel's fingers halt their progress on her locker as she turns to watch our exchange, her lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed.

"Ask me if the posters on Friday were right. Ask me if it's true," I say, syllables sizzling with so many suppressed emotions. "Ask me if I'm _gay_."

My eyes sear into Finn's, and I watch as his harden, as he drops the pretenses and lets his true feelings peel into view.

"Okay then," he says, tone carefully controlled like mine, but his eyes flickering with something hot and indecipherable. "Are you?"

"Yes." Blood roars in my ears, and I can't take the admission back, but for once, I don't think I want to. Some sick, primal part of me needs to see Finn's reaction, craves for it start a fight between us.

His face starts to transform into something, for once an expression other than confusion, but he blinks and twitches and is back to a clean slate before I can detect what he thought.

"All right then," he says, one side of his mouth curling back in a half-smile.

Rachel releases an audible breath she must have been holding, Brittany bites at her nails, and I just gape at him. "That's it?" I say.

"Um, yeah." He shrugs and laughs a little. "What did you expect? Pitchforks and torches? You're my friend, Quinn, whether you dig chicks or dudes."

Rachel beams up at him as if she wants to stick a gold star sticker on his forehead and pinch his cheeks.

"Oh," I say, anger draining from me like air leaking from a balloon. My puffed-out chest and stiff shoulders relax, and against all odds, a small but genuine smile starts to stretch at my lips. "Well, that's good to hear." And the surprising thing is that it _is_, that his support loosens at least one of the knots in my stomach.

But then he slides close to Rachel, and he slings his arm around her shoulders, drawing her in like his body is a shield. He looks down at her face, his half-smile gone, his eyes guarded, and I realize with a jolt that he's _protecting_ her from me.

The knot returns in my stomach and brings along a dozen more.

My smile retreats.

And Rachel goes back to her locker, none the wiser.

Brittany starts chattering on about cheer practice and how she wished Santana had been there and how she had to talk Coach Sylvester out of not kicking San off the squad for missing it, and her tone rises and falls in pitch and passion, but it's all white noise.

My head is buzzing, swirling around Finn putting his arm around Rachel's shoulder, his protective demeanor, and how it was aimed at _me_.

I can't get over it. It nips away at my mind in this obsessive nag, like a mosquito's whine.

Finally, Rachel closes her locker door and we head to first period. Finn slides his arm around her waist, pulling her into his side again, and I have the strongest urge to stick out my foot and trip him, but I don't.

Instead, I focus all of my attention on Brittany, tuning out Finn and Rachel – tuning them out _too_ well, because apparently Rachel was trying to talk to me.

"Quinn," she says, tapping my shoulder a few times too many. "Yoo-hoo! Pay attention to me!" I look over at her and she pouts like a little kid that wants a candy bar. It makes me smile warmly for the first time all day. She's just so freaking cute.

"Yes?" I ask, my smile tightening at the corners when I notice Finn uttering a frustrated noise to his self.

"'Yes' nothing; just stop ignoring me," she chides with a playful finger-wag and pursing of her lips.

I salute her like a total dork. "Aye, aye, cap'n."

"Oh my God!" Brittany says. "You're a pirate, too?" She drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Where do you think they keep the buried treasure? I tried digging through the football field but couldn't find anything."

"That was you?" Finn's jaw drops. "Do you know how many laps the football team had to run because of all the holes found in the field? Principal Figgins thought _we_ did it!"

Brittany's mouth jumps open into a too-big smile. "Oh, _ha-ha_, I was just kidding!" She clutches my arm and widens her eyes at me, mouthing, '_No, I wasn't_.'

We've arrived at our English classroom now so I just shake my head at Brittany and give her an encouraging smile. "We'll find buried treasure later, Britt, but now we have to go to class." _Though rooting for imaginary golden doubloons is way more appealing_.

Finn kisses Rachel goodbye and tries to make it a long, passionate embrace, but she wiggles away from him after only a second or two. He frowns but she grins, flutters her fingers, and sends him on his way.

I wish she would wipe her mouth off with the back of her hand to rid herself of his cooties.

It's only once we step into English and my eyes fall on him that I remember the source of the reason I've been dreading school today.

Rick.

Sitting in the middle of the room at his desk, his head is ducked and his bright red mullet flops forward to disguise most of his face.

The moment my eyes land on his hulking figure, my footsteps falter to a stop and a thousand different emotions and thoughts start thrashing inside me at once, all cumulating into nothing.

Rachel and Brittany halt beside me, flanking either side and tensing up when they see him.

My eyes drop to his hands; the marker smudges are gone by now but I remember what they looked like, all those colors still stained there like that damned spot of blood on Lady Macbeth's.

Slowly, as if his evil-senses are tingling, Rick lifts his head toward us.

Right away, I notice his nose. It gives me enough satisfaction that an actual smirk manifests, making me feel a bizarrely strong but fleeting sense of empowerment and superiority.

He has a thick bandage bridging across his nose which is swollen and purplish-black, the discoloration swirling up until it fades into shadowlike bruises beneath his eyes. His nostrils look bigger and darker. He looks like the shit that he is, and seeing that sign of Santana's damage makes me happy, and if that makes me a bad person, then I couldn't care less. I'll have to remember to send her right fist a bouquet of flowers and a thank-you note.

"Wow," Rick says, and his voice is just the _slightest_ bit nasally, which should be another notch of victory, but instead it sends my smirk shriveling away and my heart picking up speed as if trying to run out of my body. "I didn't expect you to show your face here ever again. Sad to see I'm wrong."

"Funny how you mention faces," Brittany says nonchalantly, "Considering _yours _is the one no one wants to see around. But it's looking better today than usual. Did you get a nose job?" She tilts her head and widens her eyes oh-so-innocently.

Rick fumes so hard that I'm surprised smoke doesn't whistle from his ears.

Rachel springs into action, marching over to Rick and slamming her hand down on his desktop. He gives a little jump and flies his hands up to his nose, shrinking backward.

"Listen to me, you disgusting excuse for a human being," she leans toward him, her face only inches from his, and speaks in a deathly tone I have never heard her even come close to using before. "Don't talk to Quinn, not even one word. Don't look at her, not even a blink. And if you try to touch her or harm her, so help me _God_ it will be the last thing you will ever do in your sorry, pathetic life."

"Rachel," I say, Brittany and I walking over to her. I don't even know why I'm calling out to her, but I just do, my voice somewhere between grateful and pleading. "It's okay." When I'm at her side, I place a protective hand on her arm as she draws back from Rick, watching his every move to make sure he doesn't lunge forward and strangle her or something, because it looks like he _really_ wants to.

He emits a dry, cold chuckle. "That's funny, troll. You think your threats actually _scare_ me? You're like five-feet tall. The only thing I should be afraid of with you is that your giant beak of a nose will peck my eye out."

Rachel, Brittany, and I start talking at the same time to stand up for her, but Rick interrupts all of us. "And you," he flicks a disgusted scowl toward Brittany. "Your bitch of a girlfriend did this to me." He jabs a finger toward his nose. "Yeah, don't look so surprised; you may think no one notices, but it's so obvious that you two are freaky dykes who like playing with each other's _pom-poms_, if you know what I mean. And since Bitchtana won't be at school for the whole week, I'll have to send my gratitude to _you_ for the _lovely_ work she did on my nose and the weekend I had to spend at the doctors having it reset."

Brittany plants her hands on her hips and rolls her eyes, but other than that, she looks completely unfazed, maybe even a little amused. "I accept your gratitude," she says. "You really should be thanking Santana because your face looks _sooo_ much better now. Also, hell yeah Santana and I are girlfriends, which is one more girlfriend I have than you've ever had in your entire life."

She starts to walk away but stops and gives him a pitying look. "By the way, using a reference to pom-poms as a joke about two gay cheerleaders? It's heartbreakingly unoriginal. Like, if you want to insult me, then could you actually _try_ next time?"

Rick's mouth sputters open and closed to the same tandem as his curling fists.

Rachel follows Brittany to our usual seats in the back row, but I find myself just standing there, staring at Rick. Both of our faces are blank as stone, but I know my eyes are flickering with hatred.

"What the fuck do you want, _dyke?_" he demands, lips smirking over that word again, just like they did when he called me that on Friday.

A flashback of emotions surges through me, so much shame and humiliation and fear and shock. I stand there gaping at him like a deer caught in the headlights, my heart flopping like a fish out of water.

Rachel's at my side again, grabbing my elbow. "Quinn?" she whispers fiercely. "What did he just say to you?"

I have to shake my head back-and-forth a few times to snap myself out of my trance. "Nothing," I say, wishing the word didn't house a slight tremble in it. "_He_'s nothing."

I walk with Rachel to our desks, ignoring how the other students in the classroom had been watching the whole ordeal and are now whispering excitedly about it in little groups. Rick's all alone, trying to hide his nose behind a textbook, and as I glare at the back of his stupid, ugly head and think about all the horrible things he's said since we walked in the classroom, I find my fury battling against something else.

It takes me a minute to pinpoint it as pity.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Lunchtime is the worst.

My usual group merges with Rachel's usual group, and it's too many people talking to me at once, asking if I'm okay, if there's anybody who needs their ass kicked (this is mainly emphasized by Puck), and giving me tips on how to avoid the bullies (Blaine), or which comebacks are the sassiest (Kurt).

I know they all mean well, and I really do appreciate them showing how much they care, but it's just so overwhelming. I feel like I'm being stretched in ten different directions at once, and all I can do is grin and talk through my teeth and laugh at the right moments even though I'm not in the mood to find anything funny.

All I can do is eat my food and try not to pay attention to how people who pass by our table keep whispering things about me even though that's the only thing I can pay attention to at all.

Sam acts like nothing was ever wrong between us, as if I didn't break his heart and our friendship in one fell swoop just a month or two ago.

And Rachel keeps asking me if I'm all right and even fixes my napkin to fit across my lap properly.

It's like they just found out I have a terminal illness and are trying to make my last days as attention-filled and accommodating as possible.

Or in Rachel's case, it's as if I'm a little kid who needs help crossing the street.

I wish Santana were here. She would tell everybody to shut up and give me some space to freaking _breathe_, and everyone would listen, because, well, she's Santana.

I try speaking up and telling them that I'm fine, really, please stop talking about it, but they only oblige for five minutes before one of them starts acting weird again.

I think I'll eat by myself tomorrow.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

After school, I skip Glee Club practice.

Rachel doesn't even try to convince me not to, but I'm too relieved at the idea of having some alone time and actual peace and quiet for the first time all day that I don't question it.

When she gets home from practice, we do our homework together and then watch TV until her dads arrive to fix dinner.

While we're eating pasta, Leroy asks, "So, how was school today, girls?"

Rachel looks at me, and I can see in her eyes that she's begging for the truth, but I paste on a smile and chirp out "Fine!" and quickly change the subject.

The pasta's delicious, and the conversation's lighthearted, and despite the sickening prospect of going back to school tomorrow, I eat everything on my plate and even have dessert.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**Tuesday**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

There's not as much staring today, or as much whispering and laughing, but that's only because people are braver now and start saying their insults to my face instead of behind my back.

While walking to my locker, a freshman girl walks up to me and Rachel (we're not holding hands, despite her asking me if I wanted to and my internal answer being yes) and asks us point-blank if we're a couple.

I start to say no, but Rachel says in a perfect deadpan, "We're actually already married and have adopted two kids."

The girl rolls her eyes and walks off.

"Why did you say that?" I snap at Rachel.

"Because she asked us a stupid question, so I gave her a stupid answer."

"So, you think the idea of us being a couple is _stupid?_" I blurt out, and oh _God_ do I immediately regret it. Rachel's mouth drops open, snaps closed, she blinks, and then starts to say something but I swiftly interrupt her.

"I mean, thanks a lot, now she's going to hate me even more and go tell people what you said and some idiots will actually believe that we're married or dating or something!" I throw my arms up, a ruse of exasperation though I'm mainly hoping their flailing motion will distract from the blush that sprang upon my face at my outburst.

I expect Rachel to argue back, but instead she just asks, "Why do you care so much about what other people will think? I mean, I have a pathological need to be liked, but you're better than that, Quinn."

"Because I just do!" This time when my arms spasm at my sides, the frustration is genuine. "If I didn't, do you think I wouldn't have just come out of the closet years ago instead of hiding away all my life?"

I leave her to mull that over and storm off down the hallway.

Which is stupid of me, because now I'm alone, without any friends by my side.

I pass by Rick and his hockey buddies, and the next thing I know, they're right by me, too many at once, and one of their shoulders crashes right into mine.

I'm hurtled into a locker, my side colliding with a _bang_ that resonates pain through every bone in my body.

I shriek, some people gasp, and when I whip around to stare after them, I see them rounding the corner up ahead, not even caring enough to see my reaction. I wonder if it was an accident or on purpose, though knowing Rick, I bet I know the answer.

I blink back tears that are trying so stubbornly to form, maybe because of the pain of the collision, or maybe because of the pain in my heart.

Either way, I fend them off.

Rachel's words from yesterday ring in my head: _Don't ever let them see you sweat._

In this moment, I promise to myself that, if nothing else, I will never give any of them the satisfaction of making me cry.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Before third period, I'm escorted by Kurt and Blaine, staying close to either side of me.

I don't tell them or anyone else about being shoved into the lockers. It makes me feel embarrassed and weak, when all I want is to be brave and strong.

They drop me off at my locker, and I tell them to go ahead and go to their classes and not wait for me. After some insistence, they finally listen and leave me be. I open up my locker, close my eyes, and take a deep breath, relishing a rare moment of alone time.

When I open my eyes again, I catch sight of Marcie the cheerleader and her best friend, Stephanie, standing at Marcie's locker a few over from mine.

They whip around to face each other, and my stomach sickens at the realization that they had been staring at me.

"Can you believe it?" Marcie asks Stephanie, not even bothering to whisper. "Quinn's a total lesbo."

"Ugh, _I know_," says Stephanie, flipping her long ponytail over her shoulder. "And to think we used to share a locker room with her!" She shudders; my heart drops and head feels dizzy.

"Do you think she ever, like, watched us while we were changing?" Marcie asks.

My face is hot, too hot; you could fry an egg on it. I try not to listen to them, but it's impossible.

"Now that you mention it, yeah, I think I do remember her staring at me a few times. What a pervert!"

"_Ewwwww!_" They burst into giggles and groans.

"I can hear you, you know!" I shout, resisting the urge to throw one of my textbooks at them.

They whirl toward me. Stephanie's upper lip curls; she takes a step back, as if I'm contagious.

Marcie smiles, sickeningly sweet. "Yeah. We know."

They flounce off together; I squeeze my eyes shut.

It takes everything in me not to cry.

I finish at my locker and slam the door closed with extra gusto, making someone who had been on the other side of it jump about a foot in the air.

It's Nancy Pettison, standing there waiting for me like a total stalker.

I wonder if she overheard what Marcie and Stephanie said. I can't stop thinking about it, their "ewww"s and snickers playing in a demented loop inside my skull. I can feel my last nerve short-circuiting beneath my skin.

"Oh my God!" she says with a little laugh. "You scared me! Are you trying to break your locker or something?"

I roll my eyes, as if her question is idiotic. "What do you want?" I snap, glowering at her. She doesn't appear offended by my bad attitude, which only serves to annoy me more.

Nancy tucks a lock of her long, bushy brown hair behind her ear. She's somewhere between 'pretty' and 'cute,' with her bright blue eyes adding toward the former, and the freckles all over her little button nose contributing toward the latter.

"I texted you over the weekend, but you never replied," she says.

"Ohhhkaaaayyyy," I say, dragging the word out with condescending impatience. "And your point is?"

"My point is," Nancy looks like she's fighting back a huff, "Why did you ignore it?"

The fact that she even cares enough to ask makes me arch a skeptical eyebrow. I choose to ignore her question.

"I'm going to be late for class," I say, pressing my books closer to my chest and lifting my chin in the air.

"We used to be good friends," she says, pursing her lips. "Back when you actually _went_ to church, that is. We almost always sat together during Sunday service, remember?"

"Yeah, well, I'm not big on the whole 'church' thing anymore."I start marching down the hall to my class; there's only a minute or two left before the late bell rings, and as far as I'm concerned, this conversation is not worthy of a tardy.

Nancy hurries after me, her footsteps matching mine stride-for-stride. "I don't think it's wrong, you know," she says quickly. "You being gay, I mean. And a lot of other people at church aren't as narrow-minded as you think."

I halt so abruptly that she nearly trips to keep up with me. "I think I remember your dad once gave an entire sermon over how against gay marriage he is. Doesn't sound very _open_-minded to me."

"Well, I'm not my dad!" Her patience finally snaps; her words carry a biting tone, and her crystal blue eyes flash. "And if you would drop the defensive attitude for _five seconds,_ you would see that I'm trying to reach out and actually _help _you."

She whips off down the hall, her frizzy curls bobbing behind her with each bouncing step.

"Shit," I mumble to myself, resisting the urge to kick the nearest lockers.

As if I couldn't feel any worse, now I have 'guilt over being a bitch' added to my list of worries.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

I eat lunch in my car.

I listen to the radio.

It's just me, my food, and some upbeat music.

It's the best part of my day, so of course it ends too soon.

When I enter the school to head to my next class, Rachel finds me right away and bombards me with questions of where I've been and if I'm okay.

I tell her about eating alone in my car, and she asks why I didn't invite her.

I shrug.

"Is it because of our argument earlier? I thought we both already apologized for that in English."

"No, it's not because of that," I say, feeling guilty at how genuinely concerned she is. "I just needed some time to myself, okay? Yesterday's lunch was…too overwhelming." That's an understatement if there ever was one.

"Well, how about just you and I eat lunch together tomorrow? We can even go off-campus somewhere," she suggests with a bright smile.

"Okay. That would be nice," I say, returning her smile, and this understatement is even bigger than the last.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Tonight at dinner, Hiram inquires how our day went.

Again, Rachel silently pleads with me to come clean about all of the torment I've been enduring.

Instead, I grin and say, "It was nice, thank you. How was your day?"

I push my food around on my plate and try to pretend like I still have my appetite.

I eat without tasting anything and skip dessert.


	35. Chapter 35

See, I told you I would update again within the next day. :D A promise is a promise! Thank you all so much for the great response to the last chapter. Same angst warnings apply for this one, as well. You really should know what you're in for by now though. ;)

Also, random side-note, but whatever: DIANNA (AGRON, OBVIOUSLY) DYED HER HAIR RED, AND IT IS EVERYTHING I NEVER KNEW I WANTED! Somebody should write a fanfiction wherein redhead!Quinn is the Mary Jane to Rachel's Peter Parker...or _Petra _Parker, eeehhh? xD Then, link me to it and I will totally eat that sucker up!

As always, please review! And as they say in my hometown: Don't forget to be awesome. :)

* * *

><p>CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE<p>

**Wednesday**

So far the day passes by without anything too awful happening.

Rick tries to trip me when I walk by his desk in English, but I manage to catch myself just in time. I retaliate by _accidentally_ bumping into his desk when I go to hand the homework in, knocking my hip into the desktop hard enough that all of his papers and supplies fall to the ground. His pen lands in front of my foot, and as he bends down to reach it, cussing under his breath, I kick the pen all the way to the other side of the room.

"Oops," I say, stepping on his homework and twisting it beneath my shoe before walking off.

He's practically growling, but he should be grateful; I could have stepped on his hand instead.

Rachel makes good on her off-campus request for lunch; we end up going to her house and eating leftovers from last night's dinner, which is more than fine by me since I wasn't able to enjoy it before. I even get some of the dessert I felt too sick to eat last night.

When we get back to school, about ten minutes before lunch ends, we head to my locker first so I can switch out textbooks.

I see Brittany up ahead, walking toward us, swaying from side-to-side in her own little world.

"Hey! Brittany!" I call out, smiling and waving my whole arm at her. I don't even care that I'm drawing attention to myself. I'm in a happy mood, fresh off of quality time with Rachel and chocolate cake.

When Britt notices us, her entire face lights up. She breaks into a skipping run down the hallway, waving at me and giggling.

I realize too late that she's about to pass by Rick's locker, where he and his friend are standing, each holding a large Slushie.

The second Brittany comes into their path, they jump out and ambush her, throwing the bright blue, icy contents into her face and all over her Cheerios uniform.

She skids to a halt, yelping as her arms fly up to cover her head, but it's too late.

Rachel and I sprint over to where she is, and I catch Rick's words as he and his friend walk off. "Tell your girlfriend that's what she gets for punching me in the face, bitch."

I'm torn between chasing after Rick and slapping him or staying with Brittany, but Rachel's already tugging her off to the nearest girls' room, so I decide to go with them instead.

I start dampening paper towels for Brittany once we're in the bathroom.

"I'm so sorry!" I start babbling a mile a minute. "This is all my fault! If Santana hadn't punched Rick for me, you wouldn't be in this mess, and I wish I could do something, and I should have gone after him, and – "

"Whoa; whoa!" Rachel says. "Quinn, calm down. This is nobody's fault but Rick and his friend's, okay?"

"She's right," Brittany sighs sadly. "God, of all the flavors, why'd they have to go with blue raspberry? It's my least favorite, and it makes me feel like they threw a liquid Smurf at me." Her eyes go wide with horror. "Oh my God, what if this _is_ a liquid Smurf, or, like, it's sacred blood or something?"

I smile a little at that. "Don't worry, Britt. It's not Smurf blood."

"Okay, good," she says with a relieved grin, and the whiteness of her teeth stick out bizarrely against the neon-blue froth dripping in chunks down her face. Her hair is matted down with it, and it trickles all down her cheerleading uniform. It looks ruined; I doubt even professional dry-cleaning can save it.

"I really hate Rick," Rachel seethes, bending Brittany over and taking out her ponytail for her. She starts rinsing out the Slushie from her hair, the water of the faucet turning blue as it runs down the sink's drain. "I mean, I really, actually _hate_ him!"

"Preaching to the choir here," I say, my heart crumbling in sympathy at the state of Brittany.

She makes little whimpering noises. "I'm a sad panda. I wish Santana were here. She'd punch his nose again."

"Me too," I say. "But, hey, on the upside, at least blue is your color. It brings out your eyes."

Brittany laughs at my joke but Rachel's still scowling about Rick, and I'm caught somewhere in between.

I want to drop-kick Rick in the head, but if I don't try to make light out of all these heavy situations piling upon my shoulders, I'm going to break.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

I wore a hat to school today.

It's a cute one, a tan fedora with a black band around it. I pair it with a loose-fitting tan sweater, some dark jeans, and a pair of black flats. I even wear some red lipstick for a stark contrast against the otherwise neutral palette.

I end up regretting this outfit during Spanish, fifth period.

Artie's in my class; he sits next to me, on the end of the row.

We're taking a quiz. Mr. Schuester is the teacher, and when he passes out the papers, he stops by my desk and bends down.

"Are you doing all right, Quinn?" he asks with a worried frown. "I haven't seen you in Glee, and after what happened on Friday…"

Of course his main concern is why I wasn't at practice, and the second one he mentions is the campaign poster debacle.

"I'm fine," I say. "I didn't feel like going to rehearsal. I'm not really in the mood for singing and dancing."

"Well, if you ever need to talk about anything, you know you can go to me or Ms. Pillsbury." He hands me the quiz and smiles kindly before continuing on down the row.

Artie leans over and pokes me with the eraser-end of his pencil. He ends up jabbing one of the bruises I acquired from getting thrown into the lockers; I wince.

"Forget Mr. Schue and Ms. P," he says. "You know your buddies in Glee have your back. If you need to talk about anything, you know I'll listen. I mean, most of my shock over finding out you're true sexual orientation has faded. At least now I know why you never wanted to go out with me; it helps to know it wasn't because I'm too ugly for you, but just because I'm too much of a man." He winks at that last part, earning a soft chuckle from me.

Mr. Schuester announces the beginning of the quiz and calls for silence in the class.

I'm one of the first to finish, and when I walk up to Mr. Schue's desk to turn it in, one of Rick's hockey buddies named Carl says in a loud whisper to another one named Rex, "Look, she even dresses like a lesbian."

Rex cracks up. "That hat really makes her look like one!"

I freeze like an idiot, my hand hovering above the desk with the paper flapping in the air like a captured wing.

My eyes go wide, skin gets warm, and stomach writhes.

A few people burst into laughter while some make scandalized noises and some shush them so they can concentrate on the quiz.

"That's _enough!_" Mr. Schue bellows. He rushes over to them and snatches their quizzes. "To Principal Figgins', both of you! And you'll be receiving a zero for your quiz."

"But that's not fair!" Carl whines.

"A _zero?_" cries Rex.

"Out!" screams Mr. Schue, pointing not just his finger but his entire arm at the door.

They grudgingly oblige, sending me glares as they leave the room.

I flip them off with both my middle fingers. Their eyes widen, and it makes me feel a little bit better.

After handing in the paper, I take my seat and nod at Artie when he whispers about what jerks they are.

When nobody's looking, I take off the hat and stash it in my bag.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

I skip today's Glee Club as well.

Rachel doesn't even try to convince me otherwise, and for some reason, this kind of offends me. If it were _Finn_, she would definitely guilt him into staying, but she didn't even try to with me.

Speaking of Finn, I've been doing an excellent job of avoiding him since the encounter on Monday.

Of course, right when I think this, who else to walk over to us at Rachel's locker than Finn himself?

He greets Rachel with a kiss, his arms clinging to her waist; I pivot on my heel and speed-walk out of the school and to the parking lot.

There's only so much I can handle, and seeing Rachel with Finn is too much for me right now.

The idea that a big dumb idiot like him gets to touch her and kiss her and take her on real dates is enough to make me want to scream at the top of my lungs until the whole world shatters.

I drive to her house and let myself in through the front door with the copy of the key the Berries had made for me.

I run upstairs to my room and change into my workout gear in record time: gray sports bra, black spandex shorts, socks, sneakers, and my hair up in a high ponytail. I put on a fresh coat of deodorant before grabbing my iPod and jogging back downstairs, making a beeline for the mini-gym.

Slamming the door behind me, I flick on the light and jog over to the stationary bike in the corner.

I clip my iPod onto the top of my shorts, put on the headphones, and crank up my 'Blow Off Steam' playlist loudly enough to drown out any other sound in the room.

The whole time I do all of these actions since arriving at the house, I focus hard on not focusing on anything at all. I concentrate all of my energy into each menial task, not allowing any heavier thoughts to float to the surface of my mind.

But now, as I sit down on the bike's seat, my brain starts to _think_.

It has the gall to actually tune out the music and start picking out much more negative frequencies, the memories of today beginning to blip on its wavelength.

My heart pounds erratically and I haven't even started the workout yet.

I put my feet securely on the pedals, turn the bike on, and place my palms around the handlebars; I find a bit of comfort in each action, honing in on their simplicity to ignore my stubborn mind.

I close my eyes and try to shut out the world, try to ignore everything from this past week, from this past month, from this past _year_.

So, I start to pedal.

And I never stop.

_Rick's big mouth, smirking around the word as he says it, his eyes glinting like a wolf's: "Dyke."_

My fingers curl tighter around the handlebars.

_Dozens of tarnished campaign posters, hung up everywhere in sight._

I lean forward on the bike, keep my eyes shut, and move my legs faster.

_'Vote Quinn FAG-GAY!' A speech bubble with 'I LUV VAGINA ALOT!' 'Lesbo' branded across my forehead, a permanent Sharpie tattoo I did not choose and cannot get off, no matter how hard I scrub._

Focus on the music, Quinn, focus on the music; don't think, don't think, just listen, listen...

_I'm walking down the hallway, when: BANG! I pull away from the locker and clutch my shoulder, trying to ignore the shooting pain._

I turn up the bike's resistance from Low to Medium.

_People are staring at me._

I go faster; my thighs are beginning to burn; sweat is starting to spring from my hairline, on the back of my neck.

_They're whispering._

Faster.

_They're laughing._

Faster.

_Finn putting his arm around Rachel's shoulders, as if _protecting_ her from me._

The resistance level _beep, beep_s, turned up as high as it can go.

I pedal as if my life depends on it, going forward and forward and forward, faster and faster and _faster damn it_, wanting the bike to pop away from the ground and fly like the Wicked Witch, fly out of this house and out of this godforsaken town and out of my fucked up life.

Flying, I am flying.

Burning, my legs are burning.

Sweat: pours from my palms, drips down my face, and plops out of every heated pore.

My heart slams against my chest, keeping pace with my brisk, circulating feet.

Breathe in and out; in and out; in and out...

I haven't worked out this hard since..._ever_. The closest I've ever had to this level of intensity was back when I was on the Cheerios...

_No, no, no, no, no, no, no..._

A stream of more nightmares trickles in, louder than my blaring music. The blackest of flashbacks.

_So many girls. Athletic, toned, _sexy _girls. Blue bra, pink bra, white bra, and snug panties over muscled tushes. With their big boobs, small boobs; little boobs, tall boobs. Like a freaking demented Dr. Seuss poem._

Faster.

_I want to keep looking, I want to touch, I want to _feel_ – and now I know I am truly the freak I have always feared myself to be._

Lungs burn, turn shallow and icy.

_"You're quitting?" Coach Sylvester has never looked so disappointed. Anger, disbelief, disgust: they're etched all over her aging face._

Hands grip the bike's bars so hard, like fists - my knuckles strain and stretch, and I can feel my pulse ticking in my tendons.

_"I'm sorry, Coach." I can't look at her, can't meet her eyes. "It's just something I have to do."_

Focus on the music, focus on the bass beat, let it fill your system like a second heartbeat, don't give in, don't...

_Pages ripped from my diary, scattered like broken wings. My dad's revulsion. My mom's silence._

Faster. Eyes shut tighter. Breeeeaaathhe.

Paramore comes on: 'Turn It Off.' The lyrics provide a backdrop to the horrific scenes unfolding through my mind.

_**"I scraped my knees while I was prayin'**_**  
><strong>_**And found a demon in my safest haven**_**  
><strong>_**Seems like it's getting harder to believe in anything**_**  
><strong>_**Than just to get lost in all my selfish thoughts"**_

_Running up the stairs, dry-heaving in my toilet, Buttercup barking. Packing my things, so hectically packing my things, Dad is yelling the minutes left, panic and panic and panic is all I know._

Faster.

The ripe smell of my depleting deodorant fills the air, tinging my nostrils.**  
><strong>

"_**I wanna know what it'd be like  
>To find perfection in the pride<br>To see nothing in the light  
>But turn it off in all my spite, in all my spite<br>I'll turn it off"**_

Every one of my muscles tenses like a rubber band, almost at the breaking point, waiting for the right moment to _snap_.

_A shriek like a banshee; my Bible hits the 'Jer' of 'Jeremiah,' this horrible crashing _thud _before landing on the floor._

My eyes fly open, desperate to escape my mind; my vision is too-sharp and blurry all at once, with strange shapes coming out of the lights in the room.

_**"And the worst part is  
>Before it gets any better<br>We're headed for a cliff  
>And in the freefall, I will realize<br>I'm better off  
>When I hit the bottom"<br>**_  
>And then I think of her.<p>

Rachel.

_I sit in the back of the auditorium with Santana and Brittany, smoothing down my cheerleading skirt and trying not to be bored out of my mind. She takes the stage, this tiny little thing, no bangs back then and hair horribly unstyled. Her knee-socks are so bright white, I can see them from back here; San and I snicker, exchange a knowing look that this girl is a total dork. And then she opens her mouth. And then she _sings. _And I can't remember for the life of me what I was snickering about in the first place._

Faster.

_**"The tragedy, it seems unending  
>I'm watching everyone I looked up to breakin', bending<br>We're taking shortcuts and false illusions  
>Just to come out the hero"<strong>_**  
><strong>  
><em>She walks down the hallway, wearing a sweater with honest-to-God <em>kittens _on it. Not just any kittens, but kittens in a _basket_. Her skirt is shorter than you'd expect when paired with such a sweater, and her feet sport penny loafers with socks that reach her knees. And yet she struts down the hallway as if she owns the place, a smug smile in place. And when she passes by me, not noticing that I'm blatantly staring, she does this little wave to someone down the hall, and it makes my heart flutter like her fingers._

Thighs are cramping, lungs are screaming, but I don't feel it, I don't feel it, pain is so close to pleasure, pain is so close...

_**"Well, I can see behind the curtain  
>The wheels are crankin', turning<br>It's all wrong the way we're working  
>Towards a goal that's nonexistent<strong>_**  
><strong>_**It's nonexistent  
>But we just keep believing"<strong>_**  
><strong>  
><em>She's in Glee Club, spinning and dancing and singing. She points to each of us in turn during the chorus, her smile lingering on me before going to the next person, but I want it back, again and again, I don't want her to ever stop smiling at me.<em>

Faster.

_I kiss her: her lips, her thighs, her breasts pressed against mine. I want more, I _need_ more of her, but she shoves me away from her, onto the ground._

Faster, and I can't breathe; faster, and I need to breathe...

_**"And the worst part is..."**_**  
><strong>  
><em>Her laugh. Her clothes. Her scent. Summer bells and knee-socks and lavender-vanilla.<em>

Faster and the room is spinning around and around, twirling and smiling at me like Rachel when she's dancing, the room is turning black and it's spinning...

_**"Before it gets any better, we're headed for a cliff..."**_**  
><strong>  
><em>RachelRachelRachel.<em>

Fasterfasterfaster.

_**"Then in the freefall, I will realize I'm better off when I hit the bottom…."**_

Everything goes black for a moment. I am suspended in time, slipping sideways...

And then there's a crashing noise, and my headphones are torn from my ears, and the room is flipped upside down, and how did I end up on the floor? Why is my body so numb except for the pain smarting in my hip and across my arm?

"Quinn?! OhmyGod, QUINN!"

The sound of running footsteps rattles my head, and then arms slide under mine, propping me into a sitting position. Lavender-vanilla envelopes my nose like a hug, tickling me... Oh, that's hair in my face, making my nostrils almost sneeze.

Disoriented, I remain limp as the person hauls me all the way up to my feet. It takes me a few seconds to realize it's Rachel, letting me lean all of my weight into her side; she positions my arms around her neck and puts hers around my waist, struggling to keep me up even though I'm taller and heavier than she is.

"Rachel?" It comes out quiet and croaky.

"Oh my God, Quinn!" She sounds like she's about to cry, but I can't see her face to confirm this. "What happened?!"

She tries to walk with me out of the gym, but my legs give out after one step.

"I'm dizzy," I murmur, squeezing my eyes shut. I feel seasick.

She sets me down onto the thin carpet, as gingerly as if I'm a ragdoll; I hear her sniffling. "I'm going to get you some water, okay? Stay right here."

I curl up in the fetal position; my body feels both light and heavy, as if it's filled in some places with feathers and others with stones. I keep my eyes closed to keep the room from tilting every which way.

The sound of pounding footsteps again, and then Rachel's voice is right above my ear. "Quinn, honey, please sit up," she sounds funny, like she's faraway or underwater, and her tone is filled with a desperate kind of pleading.

I groan in response, though the sound barely leaves my lips.

Rachel's arms scoop under me and hoist me into a semi-sitting position, my head lolling onto her chest. Fat drops of moisture _split-splat_ down my face, blending into the layer of sweat.

I peel my eyes open and realize they're tears.

I blink up at Rachel's face and realize they're not mine.

"Don't cry, Rachel," I try to say, my eyelids fluttering shut again. "I'm fine." My mouth won't work and the words don't come out.

"Drink," Rachel says, thrusting a glass up to my lips. I obey, but most of the water dribbles down my chin. It's cold and refreshing against my skin; it makes me realize how hot I am, feeling like I'm burning from the inside-out.

About half of the water goes down my throat; the other, down my body.

Rachel sets the glass aside, reaches over, and turns off my iPod, which is still blasting Paramore from the headphones. She slides an arm around my waist and pulls me to my feet; my legs are wobbly, weak, but the room is no longer spinning, so I'm able to slide an arm around her shoulders and remain relatively upright.

Rachel chatters nonstop as she half-walks, half-drags me out of the gym, into the living room, and toward the staircase. She goes back-and-forth from blaming herself for not getting home fast enough and trying to ask me questions that I can only provide grunting answers to.

My heart thuds out a sickly beat as my head pounds, and my skin feels like every inch is on fire, licked by a sweaty heat. We make it up the first step of the staircase before my knees buckle and I collapse again.

"Quinn!" Rachel shrieks as my chin smacks against the step above us, rattling my teeth so hard that I see stars burst behind my eyes.

I think I passed out, because the next thing I know, we've somehow made it up the staircase and into Rachel's room. There's so much pink, so many happy colors, and it makes my stomach churn and churn as bile sneaks up my throat.

Rachel leads me into her bathroom and flicks on the light, and I stumble my way over to her toilet, where I fall to my knees and promptly throw-up into the bowl.

I'm whimpering and moaning and puking, and Rachel is at my side in a blink, stroking stray hairs out of my face and rubbing my back with circular patterns and whispering. "_Shhh, shhh, _it's okay, Quinn_; shhh, shhh…._"

I wipe my mouth off with toilet paper and flush the toilet when I'm done. My field of vision narrows into a tunnel, my mouth is dry as sandpaper, and I'm succumbing to an inky blackness…

…Until I jerk upward, lungs sputtering and heart racing and muscles shivering awake.

Freezing-cold water pounds down on me, and it takes a few seconds of groggy, scared confusion until I realize that I'm sitting in Rachel's bathtub and the showerhead is on above me.

"Quinn?"

I turn and see that Rachel is sitting on the tile beside the bathtub, tracks of dried tears on her face and desperate hope loud in her eyes.

Panicked, I look down at my body, but thankfully I'm not naked. I'm still in my sports bra and work-out shorts, though my shoes and socks have been taken off for me.

"I-it's c-cold!" I scoot as far away from the showerhead as I can but still get pelted by falling water.

Rachel releases a long, relieved breath. "Right, right, sorry about that," she says, turning the 'Cold' handle one way and the 'Hot' one the other, so that soon the water turns blissfully warm.

"What happened?" I ask. My voice is groggy. God, I feel like absolute _shit_. Every single muscle in my body strains and aches as if a lead weight is attached to it, dragging it down.

"I don't know," she says gently. "You tell me."

My head throbs. I rub my temples and ignore her request. "Can I get out of the bathtub now?"

"Don't you want to wash yourself off first?" Rachel inquires. "I'll leave the room to give you some privacy. No offense, but, uh, you could really use a shower." She smiles apologetically.

Somehow, impossibly, I manage a small smile back. "Are you saying I stink?"

"Kind of," Rachel says with a half-hearted giggle.

"Okay, I'll wash off then."

"Here's some towels." She lifts up two big, fluffy pink ones that had been set behind her all along. "I'll leave the room to give you your privacy, but _please_ don't stand up while you're showering, except for when you have to get out, and even then, _be careful_. I don't want to risk you fainting again and busting your head open."

I nod, empathically enough to satisfy her; she exits the bathroom and shuts the door.

I take off my soaking wet sports bra, shorts, and underwear, roll them all into a ball, and place them behind me in the bathtub. There's a bottle of body wash on the shower ledge; I barely have to reach at all before I'm lathering myself up with Rachel's signature scent. The smell makes me able to breathe properly for the first time in what feels like hours.

I take my ponytail out and use the body wash to scrub my hair, too. I rinse everything off, watch the bubbles go down the drain, and then just sit there under the showerhead for several minutes, letting the warm water wash over me.

The whole time I've washed off, I've stared at random spots around the room, barely letting my eyes graze myself to assess the damage. But the blend of curiosity and dread sharpens so much that soon I can bear it no longer and have to look at myself and see how I'm faring.

First, I poke myself at the spot between shoulder and shoulder blade; it tenders enough to make me wince. I twist my neck around to see a purplish-black bruise blossoming like a demented flower. It's the spot from where I hit the lockers the other day.

I stare at it for several seconds, watching as water-drops spill down it until they merge into rivulets. I imagine the bruise unfurling into a giant rose shape, with long, snaking vines of deepest black to twist all around my body.

Shaking my head to knock myself out of my trance, I check the damage from today. There's a small bruise forming on my other shoulder, which I landed on when I fell off the stationary bike. It's tinged with greenish-yellow all over, like something sickly and diseased. There's a matching one on my hip.

Scrapes shallow enough to already be turning into scabs are all over me, particularly on my knees and elbows. I feel my chin and find a narrow gash slicing over it, already healing.

The human body is such a miraculous thing, so resilient; you can bend and break and pummel it a thousand times, and still it will dust itself off and come back swinging.

The human spirit is another thing entirely.

"Quinn, you okay in there?" Rachel calls out.

"Fine," I call back. Her voice is enough to pull me from my almost hypnotic state of mind.

I turn off the water and climb carefully out of the tub. I turban my hair with one towel and use the other to wipe off before wrapping it tight around my body, up around my arms like a cloak. It hides my back from view this way.

I think about how funny it would be to wear this fluffy pink towel as my dress to prom, and I smile.

But then I think about how there's no way in hell I'm actually _going_ to prom, and it falls right off.

My legs are sore and each step is an effort as I walk out of the room.

Rachel's sitting on the edge of her bed, flipping through a magazine. She looks up when I pass by her.

"Feel better now?" she asks, setting her magazine aside and standing up.

I nod; it feels like my neck is going to fall of my body, heavy and limp at the same time. "Yeah." My voice is croaky, tone is listless. "Thanks."

"Do you need anything?" she asks quickly, hurrying over to me. "I already put a fresh glass of water in your room. I could get you some food, if you'd like. Or I could – "

My head is starting to pound again, and I am just too damn exhausted to deal with this right now. "I'm fine, Rachel," I say as firmly as I can without it being too harsh. "Really."

I side-step her and walk out of her room as fast as my limp-noodle legs will let me. I'm too drained to feel any emotions right now, too tired to want anything but to succumb to the siren song of cool sheets and soft pillows.

When I step out into the hallway, Rachel calls after me, "Okay, but make sure to let me know if you need anything, anything at all! And if you get too weak to leave your room, you can always text me."

I close the door of my room, drop the towels, and put on my comfiest pajamas. I turn off the light, turn on the fan, wring the few drops of water left in my hair onto the carpet, and then finally, _mercifully_, climb into bed.

Cuddling with Tony, Rachel's lion stuffed animal, and hidden within the warm covers and a dark room, it's easy to pretend like I'm a child again, no real worries, parents that still love me, and my whole life stretched out before me for the taking.

My body throbs at a rhythm, and I focus on it until the pain ebbs away and is replaced by sleep.


	36. Chapter 36

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

**Thursday**

I slept all through dinner, all through the night, a deep and dreamless realm of peace, where nothing can touch me, nothing can hurt me.

My eyes open to sunlight streaming in from the window above; I check my phone and see that it's six a.m. I also see that there are some text messages from Santana, Puck, Brittany, and Kurt.

I turn my phone off without answering anyone; chug down the glass of water Rachel left me, feeling as if I haven't drunken in days; and roll over, promptly falling back asleep.

It feels like my eyes have just closed to the tranquil darkness, barely even having time to drift off, when there's a jostle against my shoulder.

My eyes open again to see not sunlight, but Rachel's face, only a few inches from mine. I jerk back and make a rather unglamorous "whaa-huhh?" sound.

"Quinn," she says softly, "It's seven-thirty. You need to start getting ready soon."

I remember with a groan that, in my hazy half-asleep state earlier, I turned off my cell phone to avoid talking to people…and turned off my alarm feature with it.

"Damn it." My voice is gravelly, and my body aches all over from yesterday's exercise from hell. And, oh God, just _thinking_ of going to school makes me physically ill, my stomach roiling and my heart picking up speed and clamminess itching into my palms.

"I'm not going," I decide, fixing Rachel with a firm look, as if daring her to challenge me.

"You want to stay home from school today?" she clarifies, biting down on her lower lip.

There's something about those words – 'stay _home_ from school' – and it spreads a bittersweet twang at the reminder that this has become my home, here in this house with Rachel and her dads. A part of me still craves a hug from my mom, a hair-rustle from my dad, but they're not the ones sitting with me on a bed right now, checking on me, _caring_ for me.

Rachel has been more of a family to me in these past few months than my parents have in…I can't even remember when.

"Yeah," I finally say. "I don't feel up to it. Can you…Will you…Call Principal Figgins and pretend to be my mom like you did last time?"

Rachel reaches her hand toward my face, and at first, I start to pull away, my eyes flinching out of reflex; but then she presses the cool of her palm onto my forehead, slowly, gently, pushing my mussed hairline back into place. My eyes close against her touch, and a soft breath works through me.

"Yes," she says. "Of course." She removes her hand; I miss it immediately.

I pull the covers up and over my head and burrow down into them like a protective fort. I hear her leaving my room, closing the door behind me, but not before she says, "Sweet dreams, Q."

She called me 'Q' again; it brings the ghost of a smile to my lips, too heavy to flicker to life, but there nonetheless.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

I wake up again at half past eleven.

My body feels like somebody stuffed lead under every inch of skin, but I manage to roll out of bed to use the restroom. When I'm done doing my business and am walking back out into the hallway again, I'm surprised to see light spilling from underneath the crack in Rachel's door.

She must have accidentally left it on before going to school. Without knocking, I open the door – and let out a little noise of surprise when I find that she's _here_, lounging on her bed and watching TV.

She looks over at me, eyes brightening and a sweet smile appearing. "Hey; did you sleep well?"

"Yeah," I say, returning the smile as best I can. "Why aren't you at school?"

"Somebody had to stay here and take care of you," she says. "And since my dads have to work, I volunteered to do it."

"But what about your perfect attendance record?"

"What about it?" She lifts her eyebrows, so simply waving away something that had once been so important to her. I guess now _I_ am more important to her; the thought makes me bit down on my lower lip and will away a pleasant blush.

"Thanks," I say, my eyes smiling more so than my mouth.

Rachel pats the left side of the bed. "Come sit with me."

"Okay." Each step feels like a thousand as I drag my sore legs over to her bed and climb in. I settle against the pillows next to her, close enough that the sides of our shoulders brush. "What are you watching?"

A commercial flits across the screen. A woman smiles at the camera as she runs a bar of soap over her arm. She's way too cheery and excited over bathroom products, and when she actually pumps her fist in the air in victory, I can't help but to giggle.

Rachel giggles, too. "It's a commercial right now, but I was watching some run-of-the-mill romantic-comedy."

I look over at her, taking in her outfit of a dark blue cap-sleeved blouse paired with a short black skirt that displays her impossibly lean and long legs, leading to bare feet and pink-painted toenails. I try not to stare at her smooth, tan legs for too long; I feel a tingly warmth in my stomach, spreading down lower as my eyes drag up to her bare thighs.

She's busy watching the TV screen, so thank God she doesn't notice me checking her out. "I feel underdressed," I say, motioning toward my flower-print pajama set, long-sleeved button-up top with matching pants.

"Nah." Rachel reaches a hand over to pat my knee …and leaves it there. Even through the cotton, I can feel the shape of her palm, the warmth of it seeming to radiate from my knee and shoot all across my leg. "You look cute, as always."

I can't help but to smile softly at her words, letting them soak the sunshine of her tone into my soul.

"So, how are you feeling?" she asks, her tone casual but her eyes heavy as they look to mine.

"Like crap." I shrug one shoulder. "I don't think I'll need to work-out again for a while."

Rachel angles her body toward mine, leaning on her elbow, her other hand shifting from my knee and slipping down my shin to balance herself. "Yeah, what was all _that_ about? Do you care to explain why you were exercising hard enough to collapse?"

"Well, I hadn't exercised in a while, and I didn't want to get out of shape, so – "

"No," Rachel says firmly, shaking her head. "Don't lie. Not to me."

My eyes fall to my lap, shame zipping heat through my face. "I…I guess I was just really overloaded with emotions from everything that had happened not just this week but this _year_, and so I overworked myself on the exercise bike." I return my eyes to hers and find that her sternness has been replaced by gentle understanding and sympathy.

"I didn't _mean_ for it to happen," I say quickly. "Honestly, I wasn't _trying_ to make myself faint."

"I know," Rachel says, squeezing my shin before moving her hand back to her own lap. "I'm not mad at you for it, Quinn. Please don't be embarrassed. I guess I'm just…I'm in a tough situation here. I hate that I have to keep lying to my dads."

"What exactly did you tell them for why I wasn't at dinner last night and why I stayed home today?"

"I said that you'd gotten sick. At least the part where you threw-up wasn't a lie."

I wince at the memory, but then my expression transforms just as suddenly into something softer, more open.

I reach over a hand to land on top of hers. I just feel…_better_ when I'm touching her. Like she's my safety net from the world; like just by meeting my skin with hers I am encased in special armor.

"Thanks," I say, "Not for lying, though I do appreciate that, but for taking care of me yesterday and making sure I didn't, like _die_ or something." I meant that last part to be a joke, cracking a smile and everything, but the way Rachel is staring at me has never been more serious.

"You really scared me," she says quietly, huskily, her voice cracking apart at the end. She licks her lips and blinks her eyes a few times.

"I know," I say apologetically, curling my fingers around hers.

"No, I don't think you do," she sighs, looking away but returning the pressure with her own fingers, wrapping around mine.

I hate seeing her so sad, especially when it's my fault. My stomach contorts in on itself. "I'll tell your dads everything that's been going on, okay? I promise. Just give me until the weekend. Who knows, maybe things will magically work out by then so it won't be as big of a deal anymore when I tell them."

Rachel chews on her lower lip and nods, still staring off into space. "Okay. I guess that's fine."

I can't help it; I lean over and kiss her atop the head, catching that familiar whiff of her hair. It's that lavender-vanilla, clean and floral and sweet, and just so perfect and calming. Just so _her_. When I pull back, I see that she is gazing down at our intertwined hands in her lap. Maybe it's just a trick of the light, but I think there are tears in her eyes.

My entire face frowns at that, an ache trying to push its way out of my chest. "Come here."

I stretch out my arm and let her scoot closer, until we're snuggled together. She nuzzles her face into my shoulder, and I lay my chin on top of her head. The radiance of our body heat merges into a single entity of toasty warmth. I wrap my arm around her upper torso as she wraps hers around my waist, our hands still linked together, half-in both our laps.

"I love you, you know," I say, and it's the first time I've ever strung those first three words together.

And I realize – no, not really _realize_, more so finally _accepting_ – that I do love Rachel. Like, _love_ Rachel. All this time I have been fooling myself into thinking I just had a crush on her, or just really, really liked her, but it's so much more than that. Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with this girl, but I've been too afraid to admit it to anyone, especially myself.

The words feel so _right_, leaving my tongue in that order, but tasting of so many other things left unsaid, of cherished moments and the weight of memories. Of fingers laced together right now, and the first time I ever saw her, standing on a stage, lighting it up with her talent. And now here she is, lighting up my life just by being who she is.

And maybe my tone is kept too casual, too reigned-in, to hide just _how_ much I love her, to hide what I really want to say – 'I'm _in_ love with you.' But I said it, in one form or another, and for now, that has to be enough.

Rachel is quiet for a long moment. When she finally speaks, her voice is so quiet and fragile, and yet brimming with a loud and deep emotion that for the life of me I can't place.

"I know," she says, and I think I feel a warm wetness seeping into my shoulder, right where her eyes are buried. "I love you, too."

It's not nearly enough, and yet it's all I could ever ask for. Maybe I can just pretend like the context is different, pretend like she means the kind of love that I have for her.

I kiss her on top of the head again, my lips lingering longer this time, burning with the silence that has descended upon us.

We watch the rest of the romantic-comedy, cuddled together, but I'm far more content watching the way Rachel laughs at the jokes and "_awww_"s at the sweet moments than I am watching the movie itself.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**Friday**

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

I texted Santana, Puck, Brittany, and Kurt back last night.

I know I've been pushing everybody away and have been internalizing too much. It imploded with my over-the-top work-out on Wednesday, so I figure I should start actually letting people back in.

Still, I keep the conversations short and to the point. There is still this stubborn, self-preserving part of me that whisper-screams in my ear to '_runrunrun_,' to distance myself from anyone whom I care about and who could break my heart like my parents did.

Mr. Berry^Squared let Buttercup sleep in my room with me last night. I guess they took pity on me having been "sick." I'm very grateful that they let me do this, because if it weren't for her snuggled into one side of me and Tony the Lion snuggled into the other, I don't think I ever could have fallen asleep.

Now it's Friday morning, and Rachel and I are walking through the front doors, entering the school.

My body doesn't ache nearly as much as it did yesterday, but I'm still pretty sore, particularly in my legs. I overslept this morning and threw on the first passable outfit I came across in my closet: a white scoop-necked shirt paired with gray jeans and red sling-back shoes. My hair is parted to the side with a black headband through it, contrasting starkly with the paleness of the blonde beneath.

Rachel wears the same outfit she had on yesterday, since no one from school besides me actually saw it. Her hair is worn in loose curls with her bangs looking extra-fluffy, and she has on some rosy-red lipstick that makes her complexion seem to glow. She's radiant as always, and it makes me feel both happy and sad at the same time to see her in all her glory.

We hang out with Kurt, Blaine, and Brittany in the library before first period starts.

"Where were you guys yesterday?" Blaine asks me and Rachel when we sit down across from the trio.

"I needed a mental health day, so Rachel stayed home with me," I say.

"Ah," Blaine nods empathetically. "Totally understandable."

"Well, you're both looking _hot_," Brittany grins, prompting a 'thanks' from me and Rach. "Maybe you should take a day off more often."

"Sounds good to me," Kurt says with a dramatic heave of a sigh. "With all this homework my teachers keep piling on, it's like they _want_ to discourage me enough to go ahead and drop out of school."

"We're graduating next month," Rachel says. "Just stick it out until we have final exams, and then you're home free. We'll be out of this place before you know it."

I've been so busy dealing with everything that I haven't even had time to think about graduation, about that massive question mark scribbled over my future. I know I need to start sorting things out soon, need to decide which college I want to go to (I have it narrowed down between Yale and Columbia). But for now, I take a deep breath to ease the knots from my stomach and push away the worries. Better to not waste my time stressing over something in the distance when the here-and-now is so pressing.

After ten minutes of conversation, the bell rings and Rachel, Brittany, and I head to English.

"Thank God this week is almost over," Brittany says. "Santana will be back on Monday! I've missed her so much."

"We all have," I say, and thinking of my short-tempered, fiery, and incredibly loyal best friend makes a real smile manifest across my face.

But when we enter the classroom and I see _Rick_ sitting at his usual seat, that smile sours right into a scowl. He looks up at us and makes a show of rolling his eyes.

"Oh, _great_," he says, loud enough to attract the attention of every other student in the room. "Look who's back. I was hoping you two had transferred schools or joined some dyke-y cult or something."

"Are you talking to them?" Brittany asks, gesturing between me and Rachel. "I can't understand you. I think you said, 'I'm an asshole,' but I'm not sure. You see, you're kind of nasally and sound all stopped-up when you talk. Did something happen to your nose? It's, like, really swollen and ugly and making your voice sound even weirder than usual."

Everyone makes '_ooohhh_' sounds at that, enjoying her series of insults. Rick's eyes flash, and his hands jump up to cover his nose. I think his face is turning red, but it's hard to tell when he's so naturally blotchy.

"Very well-put, Brittany," Rachel chirps, sauntering past Rick with her head held high and a proud smirk stretched up her face.

Brittany and I follow after her; when I pass by Rick, I can't help but to look at him. His eyes are cold and black, like two bottomless pits that could suck me in and suffocate the air from my lungs. There is something hateful and calculating in his face, which I see really is blushing.

"You disgust me," he seethes, quiet enough that only I can hear him. But there's something in his tone, this tremor of emotion that he's struggling to keep at bay.

My heart is racing as a cold sickness churns in my stomach, and I realize that what I'm feeling is _fear_. I'm _afraid_ of him. I'm giving him power of me, and that realization makes a terrible shiver skitter across my skin.

I open my mouth to fire off some scathing retort, but I can't speak. I can only shake my head at him and hurry over to Rachel and Brittany, my hands rubbing at my upper arms to ward away the sudden chill.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

The rest of the day drags by without anything to report.

At lunch, I sit with the usual crew, but it's not overwhelming like last time, and I actually find myself enjoying the conversations and smiling much more than I am frowning. I would call that 'progress.'

Before sixth period, the last class of the day, I go to my locker to swap out supplies.

Sam's walking with me, doing an impression of some Star Wars character, but I'm only half paying attention.

For when I open up my locker, I find something that's been wedged through the vents.

It's a piece of notebook paper.

I open it up and find two words scratched out in black pen, big and bold and covering the entire page: _QUINN FAG-GAY!_

My heart stops for a second, and my head feels lighter. The letters blur together in whirls of black.

"What's that you've got there?" Sam asks. "A secret admirer? Ooooooh!" He leans over my shoulder; I try to hide it the note, but it's too late.

"Oh my God!" he says. "What the hell?! Who would write that?"

I sigh and crumple the paper within my fist into a tight ball. "I can think of, oh, about a dozen at least."

"Tell me all the suspects and I'll kick every one of their sorry asses!" he insists. His eyes are wild and deadly-serious.

"Some of them are girls," I say. "You wouldn't hit a lady, would you?"

"Hey, I believe in equal treatment for both genders," Sam says, face softening at my joke. "I wouldn't personally beat them up if they're a girl, but I could hire, like, another girl to do it for me if I find out they've been mean to you."

"Thanks, Sam," I say, feeling just a tiny bit better. "Good to know you have my back."

I return my attention to the inside of my locker. I stick my head deep inside, pretending to look for the book I need, but I'm really taking the few seconds of privacy to fight away the quiver in my chin.

When I pull back with my supplies, I make a show of stomping over to a nearby trashcan and ripping the note up into little pieces. I watch as they drift into the garbage like tiny bits of paper snow, fluttering from my grasp for good.

"Feel better now?" Sam asks when I walk back over to him.

"Yeah," I say, though my hands are shaking, just a little. "I do, actually."

And the crazy thing is that I mean it.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Finally, school is over not just for the day, but for the glorious weekend up ahead.

Two whole days of being out of this hellhole and away from Rick and my other tormentors makes me almost do a happy-dance with relief. That was, _almost_, of course.

I walk to my locker and start loading what I need into my bag. I remember that there's Glee Club practice today, and I debate inwardly if I should go or not. I figure I should, since I missed the other two meetings this week. It will be good for me to be around my friends and distract myself with some good old-fashioned singing and dancing.

I shut my locker door, click the combination lock into place –a very normal routine of my right-after-school day – but when I hoist my bag's strap further up my shoulder and turn around, I am faced with a completely _un_expected sight.

And a completely unwelcome one.

Rick, Carl, Rex, and their friend Marcus stand about two feet away from me. They are positioned in a stretched out semi-circle of sorts. I realize right away that I am trapped against my locker, like an animal penned into its cage.

The next thing I notice is that each of them grips a Super Slushie (that's what they call the largest size; that's _thirty-two freaking ounces_) from the school cafeteria. Rex actually holds _two_ of them.

I try to ignore the fear rising within me; I concentrate on annoyance and anger instead. "What do you want?" I demand, narrowing my eyes.

"Jeez, calm down," Rick says with condescending patience. "No need to raise your voice."

I'm not going to play along with whatever two-brain-celled game he's cooked up. "Will you move out of my way?" I ask, not bothering to hide my irritation. I realize that I'm gripping my purse across my chest, fingers digging into the top of it in a vice-grip, but I can't bring myself to relax my hold.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" He holds up his free hand. "Let's calm down here."

I refuse to fall for his bait; I merely stand there, my eyes burning into his, not going to back down or even so much as _blink_ before he does.

"Me and the guys here," he gestures to the two hulking hockey players to his left, and then towards the one on his right "actually come bearing gifts." He lifts his lidless, strawless Slushie in the air, so full that a little bit of the dark purple froth sloshes over the side. He flashes me a choir-boy grin, showing off his crooked, yellowed teeth.

"Really?" I quirk an eyebrow. "Wasn't it just this morning that you were being a complete _dick_ to me and saying how much I disgust you?" I roll my eyes. "Now, get out of my way." I try to take a step forward, but when they don't take one back, I falter against my locker.

I'm done with this; I want to get to Glee Club practice. Where's Rachel? She promised to… Oh. Right. We agreed to meet at _her_ locker, not mine. And hers is on the other side of the school.

Which means I have no one around to help me.

_Shiiiiiiittttt._

"No, really!" Rick insists. "We think it's totally _cool_" – something about how he emphasizes the word – this gleam in his eyes and this twitch of his lips, which all vanish almost immediately after appearing – makes a foreboding feeling twist within my gut like a rusty knife – "how you're not afraid to be yourself. Even if we all think it's wrong. Like, seriously, Quinn – it takes major balls to do what you did. To come out of the closet. And we're all sorry for being such asses about it."

"I didn't come out of the closet, _Rick_; I was pushed out by you and your asshole friends," I snap, my blood starting to simmer, my heart hammering at a sickly pace. I just want them all to _go away_.

My eyes flicker over Rick; several people have stopped to watch our exchange. They whisper to each other with disgustingly blatant amounts of interest and bloodthirst in their expressions. Some giggle, some point; they all stare.

"Oh, Quinn," Rick says, pulling my attention back to him. "What's the hurry? This is important."

I'm about to start forward, to freaking _push_ my way out of this cage of towering limbs and beefy necks, when Rick's words stop me cold. And the wolfish grin and malicious glint in his eyes make a chilly finger slip down my backbone.

"Our gift to you is these Slushies. Coming one from each flavor of the Slushie rainbow, we are officially presenting you with the Gay Pride Special, something that we thought up just for you. We hope you like it, Quinn _Fag_-_gay_." He doles out a quick, authoritative nod to his boys, and then the reason for the foreboding feeling in my stomach unfolds, each action a separate bitch-slap to my soul.

I start to spring forward, ready to shove my way free, when I'm seeing red.

Literally.

Because one of the boys launches the contents of his Super Slushie at me, and _thirty-two freaking ounces_ of bright red cherry-flavored half-ice, half-liquid explodes all over my front, my side. It is cold – no, _frigid_, like Antarctica in a cup – and sticky and so, so wet, and it stings. It stings every part of me.

"_Dyke_," one of them growls.

My eyes squeeze shut against the burning sensation of Slushie and tears: of sugar, of salt.

I open my mouth to say something – maybe a protest, maybe a scream – which is a mistake because _another_ Slushie is thrown onto me, and I taste the sourness of lemon.

"_Lesbo_," another hisses.

The _next_ color that attacks me, that icy-burns me to the core, soaking my outfit to cling against my flesh, is green apple.

Ironically, my favorite flavor: I catch a strong whiff of it when I have to painfully snort some up my nostrils, considering my floundering and sputtering mouth is finding it hard to breathe.

"_Bitch_."

I have cowered against the locker, holding my purse like a shield, pathetic and terrified and unsure of what to do or if I can even move.

It's a rapid-fire attack of one Slushie after another, explosion of frothy ice right after another explosion of frothy ice.

Slushied, then a verbal punch. Injury, then insult. But the insults, the malice with which they are uttered, actually sting worse than even a thousand Slushies.

Next up is blue-raspberry-flavored, sloshing into my shoes, drenching my socks and my dignity with it. Followed by a husky "_freak_."

Rick waits until I've swiped away enough of the thick coating of Slushie from my eyes to see him. He takes a step forward, then another, toe-to-toe with me. He tilts his head down so he can stare me right in my eyes, and then he lifts his Slushie. The last one. The base of a rainbow. Purple.

"You are a loser, Quinn," he says with condescending mock-pity and false sadness. "The world is better off without skanks like you. You really should have stayed _in_ the closet." And with that, he slowly, _casually_, turns his own grape Super Slushie over and dumps its entire contents right on top of my head.

My hair is matted down and now I am effectively covered and dripping scalp-to-tiptoe with a rainbow of Slushies; I shiver uncontrollably, and not just because I am fucking _freezing_.

I can't see, but I hear them walking away. I hear how the gasping and whispering of my classmates transitions into louder tones. To their credit, at least nobody is laughing. A tiny mark toward humanity, but it's better than nothing, I guess.

I stand there, pressed like a sticker against my locker. And it's weird, but…I don't feel like crying. I don't feel humiliated or sad or disgusted with myself or pathetic or anything like that.

No, what I feel is fucking _angry_.

Furious.

My blood is boiling; my teeth are gritted. My hands are curled into tight fists. Shortened breaths heave from my pounding chest.

I lick my lips and taste a mix of blue raspberry and green apple. I tighten the strap of my bag and use my hands to rub a quick flick down the entire length of my face, clearing my vision.

I watch as Rick and his pals turn the corner down the hall, hanging a left.

And then, without consulting my brain first, my legs start running forward. I slip and slide all over the place, shoes squeaking like agitated mice, but I manage not to fall over or trip on the huge puddle of Slushie that lies at my feet.

In no time at all, I catch up with Rick and his friends. My heart sprints as fast as my shaky legs.

"HEY!" I shout, only a foot away from him now. "DICKHEAD, TURN AROUND!" I don't wait even a second for him to do so, sinking my sticky claws into the back of Rick's letterman jacket and whirling him around to face me. I release my hold from him so quickly that he stumbles backward a bit, just barely managing to catch himself from falling on his ass.

He looks shocked to see me.

Then confused.

Then really, _really_ pissed off.

_Yeah, you and me both, buddy._

The Dickettes whip around to face me, too, but I don't pay attention to them. They don't matter. They're idiot pawns in Rick's sick game of life.

Rick is the ringleader, and Rick is the one who's going to pay.

I'm looking at him, but I don't see his face.

No, instead, I see my dad. How he looked when I came out to him: his upper lip curled taut in disgust, and his eyes cold with hatred.

I see my mom. The weakness, unable to stand up for her own daughter. Watery eyes and wrinkled nose and quivering mouth.

I see the church _tsk_-_tsk_ing for what they think is my doomed soul, writing me off as a wasted life, a hopeless sinner.

All I can see when I look at Rick is Ignorance and Selfish Conformity and Fear, and it all makes me feel sick to my stomach. Because all of those things are the exact opposite of what I want to be. All of those things are the exact opposite of how _anyone_ should be.

I'm sick and tired of it. I'm sick of people telling me who I can and can't be. Who I can and can't fall in love with. I'm tired of trying to be anyone other than who I am, than who I believe God made me. I'd rather be "a sinner" than be fake. I'd rather live freely and make some noise that ends up crashing than to live quietly and safely and end up with nothing at all to show for it.

So, I lock my eyes right onto Rick's, right into those shallow pupils of his, and I feel something inside of me unfurling, something blossoming deep in my chest. The air is charged, static-crackling with my energy.

"You're right; I'm gay!" I yell, loud enough for all of the watchful eyes in the hall to hear me. And probably every other person in Ohio, too. "I'm _fucking _gay! I like girls. I. LIKE. GIRLS! And you know _what!?_ I don't give a fuck anymore what you think. What _anyone _thinks. I have friends who love me and are there for me, unconditionally. But you, Rick? You are _alone_. Are you are _going_ to be alone_ for-ev-er._"

His jaw hangs slack, eyes bulging out, and arms dangling at his sides.

"So, don't feel sorry for me." I swivel my head toward the small crowd that has gathered, momentarily addressing them, too. "I'm going to be fine." I turn my attention back to Rick and go in for the kill. "But you? You're an ignorant, helpless asshole. So, it's _you_ that I feel sorry for. Not myself. Because I'm not ashamed anymore. I'm just _pissed off_."

And with that, I yank the empty Super Slushie from his limped grasp and hurl it so hard at his head that it makes a loud _clunk_ against his surely-empty skull before clattering to the ground and rolling away.

It's like I've just flicked the switch on Rick back to Crazy Town Mode, because instantly after hitting him, this blackness burns in his eyes and this shadow storms over his face, and then he lashes out at me so fast that I don't have time to do _anything_.

His hands are just _there_, on my shoulders, slamming me down to the hard tile of the ground. I land on my side; pain shoots up my hipbone.

I try to jump back up, seriously ready to fight him, but my slippery state of Slushie-ness makes me slide right back down again.

He starts to bend toward me, raises his hand as if to strike; there is murder in his eyes.

But then, out of nowhere, Rick goes flying.

Someone hurtles their self against his back, sending he and Rick forward a good three feet before Rick crashes to a loud, clanging stop against a row of lockers. The metal shrieks around him, reverberating as if he made impact on it a thousand times.

I see that it's Puck, pinning both of Rick's arms behind his back. Rick's neck is twisted to the side, his face toward me, and I see that he is wincing in pain. His cheek is squished against a locker, and his nose is starting to bleed.

"You were going to hit her?" Puck shouts, pulling Rick back just so he can slam him into the locker again. "You were going to _hit her?!_"

"Quinn!" I look up to find Sam and Mercedes running over to me. They both grab at my arms and haul me to my feet.

"Oh my God, what the hell happened?" Mercedes' eyes are wide and mouth hangs open.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sam asks with so much fury that I can almost _feel_ it rolling off of him. "They attacked her."

Rick's friend Marcus grabs at Puck to pull him away from Rick, but Puck, without even looking, sends the guy back – by bucking his foot right into Marcus' groin.

Sam storms over to the group, and soon there is an all-out brawl: Sam and Puck are fighting Carl, Rex, and Marcus. Rick hobbles out of the way, staying out of the fight like the coward he is.

"Sam!" Mercedes shrieks when he almost gets punched in the face, ducking down to just barely avoid Carl's fist.

"Stop it!" I yell. "Puck! Sam! Stop fighting!" The idea of them getting hurt fighting for me makes a banner of guilt start unfurling within my already jumbled stomach.

Mercedes turns back to me and takes off the dark purple jacket she wears. "Here," she says. "Put this on."

"But your jacket will get ruined," I protest.

"You're wearing a white shirt, and all of that wet Slushie on you is making the outline of your bra visible," she explains, still thrusting her jacket at me. "Seriously, girl, you're more important to me than some stupid jacket."

Despite how shivery-cold I am, this act of friendship from Mercedes makes warmth spread from my heart, all the way to my toes. I smile at her, quick but genuine, and take the jacket from her. I'm just starting to slip one of my arms into a sleeve when there's the sound of running, and Mr. Schuester and Coach Sue appear.

They start grabbing at the boys; Mr. Schue seizes Puck and Sam, one of his hands grabbing at the back of either of their necks. Sue stands across from Rick and his friends, her body squatted down as if to strike at any moment, her arms held out in front of her; she's blocking any of them from trying to run off.

"Principal Figgins' office! _Now!_" Mr. Schue orders, so loudly that his neck vein bulges. "All of you!" He releases Sam and Puck and shoots them a stare rife more so with disappointment than anger.

"You heard him, meatheads!" Sue shouts at the hockey posse. "Off to Figgins before I use my leg as a personal hockey stick and put it so far up your asses that you'll be coughing up my shoelaces from those oversized gullets!"

Mr. Schue and Sue start to herd the boys to the office when my former coach stops at the sight of me. For a moment, we just stare at each other. There's a look buried deep in her eyes, something softer and meaningful, but it's covered by the hardened lines of her face.

"You too, Lil Kim and Kesha," she finally says, her tone devoid of its signature bite. She starts to walk off but turns back, giving me raised eyebrows. "And cover up. You look like you're competing in a wet T-shirt contest for leprechauns with a rainbow-fetish."

As she marches off, she whirls toward all the bystanders who had watched the fight and wiggles her hands at them like a witch casting a spell. "Scram, miscreants!" she yells, and they all do, fleeing like rats at the sight of a flashlight.

Mercedes and I have no choice but to follow Coach Sue. As we walk, I slip on the rest of the jacket and zip it up all the way. It's big and warm and cozy, but sticky against my Slushied self.

"Thanks," I tell Mercedes. "You, like, _literally_ took the clothes off your back for me. That means a lot."

"No problem, girl," she says, linking her arm with mine. "I'm just sorry that I couldn't stop those assholes from doing this to you in the first place."

We pass down one hallway, and then another, and soon we are down the hall that has Rachel's locker.

And there she is, standing in front of it with Finn. She's gesticulating wildly, arms waving and head whipping around. The closer we get to her, the more pissed off I realize she is. Pissed off at_ Finn_, who is arguing right back at her, his arms crossed over his chest and his nostrils flaring.

"Hey, Rach," I call out as we start to pass by them. "…Finn."

She whips toward me, and immediately the anger on her face dissolves into horrified shock. "_Oh my God!_ Quinn! What happened to you?"

Finn gets his stupid, confused look on his face as he gapes at me. "You look really, like…_colorful_."

Rachel runs over to me and Mercedes and falls into step with us. She grabs onto my other arm, peering up at me with eyes so wide that I can see the whites all around. "You're soaking wet! And…and…_What happened to you?_"

She's babbling, all hyper energy and worry and fear, and rather than those negative emotions make me even more upset than I already am, they actually make me feel better. Because here she is, at my side, clinging to me and offering support and loyalty and any help that I need. Just having her around makes everything feel just a little bit better. And 'a little bit' is a whole freaking _lot_ right now.

Finn hurries to catch up with us. He keeps staring over at me, so confused that I fear his brain may actually explode. But there's some worry in his dark brown eyes, enough to remind me that despite my jealousy and annoyance toward him, he really can be a decent friend sometimes.

I turn to Rachel say, "Rick and his friends ambushed me with Slushies. Then I yelled at Rick, threw a cup at his head, he tried to hit me, Puck swooped in to stop him, Mercedes and Sam showed up, Sam and Puck started fighting Rick's friends, Mercedes gave me her jacket, Mr. Schue and Coach Sylvester showed up, and now we're all being marched to Principal Figgins' office."

"What she said," Mercedes nods.

"Wow," Rachel breathes. "Oh my God. I…I can't believe I wasn't there. I'm so sorry, Quinn! I _should_ have been there." She swings a pointed look toward Finn, who is suddenly staring straight ahead, his cheeks tinting pink.

"Don't worry about it," I insist. "You're here now. I'm fine, okay?" But my throat is tight, and my heart is still hammering, and my knees feel like they are going to buckle in and make me fall, and I am _freezing_.

We arrive down the hallway of the principals' office, and I see that his lights are off and that Figgins himself is standing outside the door, talking to Mr. Schue and Sue. Puck and Sam stand off to one side while Rick and his gang stand off to the other. No one looks happy.

"Hello, children," he says tiredly when we reach him, Mr. Schue, and Sue. "Yikes, Miss Fah-bray, I see what Mr. Puckerman and Mr. Evans described of your condition was not an exaggeration."

He rubs at his temple and brow and heaves a long, drawn-out breath. His shoulders sag. "We have quite the problem on our hands here. But the thing is, I have a very important meeting I have to get to. So, here is what we are going to do." He drops his hand from his face and sweeps a firm stare toward all of us gathered around.

"All of you I see standing here, that is all of you who participated in or witnessed the fight, will report to my office first thing on Monday morning. And for you, children, you _will_ bring at least one of your parental guardians, or you will automatically get a Saturday detention…for the night of prom." When there are some cries of protest from that – all from Rick's posse, I notice – Figgins holds up a hand and nods his head.

"Yes, that is how it will be. You must bring a parent with you or you will be punished. You are all minors, or maybe eighteen but still very young, and so dealing with an issue as big as this will require that you have a personal adult present with you."

My blood runs cold at that, colder than the many layers of Slushie soaking into me. I don't _have_ any parents who I can bring with me for the meeting on Monday. But it's not like I'm going to admit to _that_, not here in front of the people who just attacked me.

"Now, go off to enjoy your weekend and we will figure this out on Monday," Figgins says, already walking off. There are some questions and demands yelled at his back, but he just waves his hand behind him, shooing us away.

Mr. Schuester escorts me and my friends to the front doors of the school to the parking lot while Sue escorts (more like, screams at and shoves at their backs if they aren't moving fast enough) Rick and his posse to the other side of the school, taking the long way to the parking lot.

Once outside, I hug Puck and Sam and make them promise not to do anything drastic once I leave. Then I thank Mercedes again and accept an awkward one-armed hug from Finn.

Rachel and I get into our cars and drive to her place. The second we're through her front door and into her house, I waste no time in going upstairs to take a shower in the hall bathroom. I lock myself in there and take deep breaths to steady my racing pulse.

All week, I have not cried.

Not a single tear has been shed; not even a grain of liquid salt has scratched down my face.

At the beginning, the tears would stab behind my eyelids like the tiniest but sharpest of knives, sometimes frigid and sometimes searing, but always hard like little rocks, like miniscule fists shoving behind my lids.

Eventually, after blinking them back enough, they gave up, marched away from my eyes, and took up residence somewhere deep inside me, this invisible, darkened place that weeps in silence, weeps alone.

So, I guess I should say, I have not _physically_ cried all week. Emotionally? That's a different story.

But when someone whispered behind my back...

When people giggled and pointed at me...

When I received disgusted but curious sidelong glances, like a science experiment gone wrong...

When I was shoved into the lockers "accidentally"…

When I saw Brittany get a face full of bright blue Slushie, dripping down her long blonde ponytail and staining her Cheerios uniform and tainting her dignity to its very core...

When I collapsed from the bike, sweating and exhausted, the room spinning and blackened around me…

I did not shed a single tear. I did not cry. Not during any of those horrible times. I did not cry.

But now, as I strip my sticky, ruined clothes from my body...

As I peel off my still-damp bra and underwear and take away some dry skin and rip some tiny hairs off along with them from the adherence...

As I look down at my body and take in the rivulets of dried Slushie running all over me in stripes and diagonals, a gingham print of shame and hatred...

As I turn to my reflection in the mirror and see that it looks for all the world like I am bleeding bright, rainbow blood from every pore of my body...

As I step into the hot, steaming shower and the sounds of water beating down into the ceramic tub fills the room loudly enough...

This is the time.

Hot shower water mingles with even hotter tears, bursting like dams and running down my body, and I don't know which does a better job of washing away the Slushies and impurities and warming away the icy numbness that I have become.

I let the waters flow.

I let myself feel.

I let myself cry.


	37. Chapter 37

Thank you so much to everyone who is still sticking with this story! I love you all. :) I'm pretty sure I responded to everyone who reviewed, but it wouldn't let me respond to NomadQT73 because his/her Private Messaging feature is disabled. So, thank you so much for your absolutely lovely and kind review, and I am so glad that you are enjoying my story!

I hope that everyone continues to enjoy it. Without further ado, read on! :D

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN<strong>

I don't know how long I stay in the shower.

Long enough for my tears to dry out and eyes to feel sore from so much crying.

Long enough that the heat of the water turns less and less so before going completely cold.

Long enough that I use a good half a bottle of my shampoo and body wash, making sure that the water that dribbles off me to wash down the drain is clear and clean, no lingering traces of rainbow color from my hair or skin.

I turn off the water and get out, wrapping up with a big towel around my head and an even bigger one around my body. The mirror is all fogged up from leftover steam, making my reflection impossible to see.

I feel…drained. Exhausted, more so emotionally than physically. I'm a blend of so many emotions – anger and sadness and even a sense of pride, happy that I _finally_ stood up for myself – that I don't know on which to focus. It's overwhelming, filling me up to bursting, so I concentrate on taking steadying breaths as I exit the bathroom and go to my bedroom.

After I've changed into a pair of gray sleep shorts and my favorite lounge shirt, – the soft-as-a-cloud, gray cotton shirt with the elbow-length maroon sleeves – I go back into the bathroom to put up my towels and brush out my hair.

The steam has cleared enough from the mirror by now that I can see my reflection: my skin is tinted red all over from being exposed to hot water for so long, but there are no markings left from the Slushies. Thank God my hair is still as blonde as ever (though it does appear darker since it's damp) and not dyed by any of the heinously bright liquids thrown at me.

But as I'm dragging a comb through my hair, my gaze latches onto my eyes. They're reddened from so much crying, but that's not what catches my attention.

I stare back at myself, and what I see in the depths of me makes a real smile unfurl up my cheeks. My irises are bright and alive, burning their many tones of hazel like a fire coaxed back into life. I look at the mirror and for the first time in a long time, I see _me_. Or, more so, the part of me that I've always longed for: a fighter. Somebody strong, somebody worthy, somebody who doesn't back down.

It's beautiful enough that I almost burst into tears again, but a different kind than when I was in the shower.

A _much_ different kind.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

"Hey," I say when I walk into Rachel's room about ten minutes later.

She was in the middle of pacing back-and-forth along her flower-shaped rug; her hands were clasped behind her back, stare smoldering straight ahead in utmost concentration, brows furrowed together.

But at the sound of my voice, she stops and whips toward me, her face softening in a blink. She runs over and tackles me with a big, squeezing hug, crushing our bodies together so close that it knocks the next breath from my lungs.

"Rach," I squeak, hugging her back but not as tightly, one of my hands patting her on the back. "I kind of can't breathe here."

"Oh, right!" She steps back and clasps her hands together like before, but this time in front of her. "Sorry about that."

"No problem."

Rachel wrings her fingers together and lets a close-lipped smile tug up her face, plumping those dimpled, rosy cheeks. "Okay, how about we try that again?" She holds out her arms and steps forward. "I'm going to hug you now."

I giggle at the return of her little catchphrase. "I'm ready this time." I wrap my arms around her tiny waist as she locks hers around my neck. We hug for a long, warm moment, and maybe it's just my imagination (more like, wishful thinking), but when we part, she seems reluctant to let go.

She licks her lips and stands on tiptoe, tucking a stray lock of my still-damp hair behind my ear. She tugs down on the hemline of my shirt and clucks her tongue. "Look at you. You're a mess."

Warmth rolls over me at her tender nature and how it is so full of affection. "If you think this is messy, you should have seen me like an hour and a half ago, when I was covered in Slushie. Now _that_ was a mess," I joke back, but it's not really a joke at all, and she doesn't laugh.

Rachel breaks away from me, fidgeting with her hands again. "I'm so sorry, Quinn," she says, staring at the ground. "I should have been there." Her eyes jump back to mine, burning with conviction. "I should have _stopped_ them!"

"There was nothing you could have done," I insist. "They would have just Slushied you, too. You can't blame yourself, because then that just takes away the blame from the _real_ people at fault."

"I know," she says, nodding, and swallowing hard enough that I can see her throat constrict.

"Could you show me where the trash-bags are?" I ask. "So I can throw away my ruined clothes."

Rachel nods again and leads the way out of her bedroom and all the way down into the kitchen. She grabs a trash-bag from the pantry, one of those big black ones, and hands it to me.

"Thanks," I say.

She walks over to the cabinets and starts pulling out a red kettle. "How about some tea?"

"That sounds lovely." I leave her to it and head back upstairs to grab my clothes from where I put them in the bathroom sink.

When I lift them up, I see that it looks like my entire outfit was on the losing team of a tie-dye fight. But the colors are more muted after drying, everything running together into an ugly green-brown color. My jeans, shoes, and even my headband are also all completely ruined. I guess I could salvage the bra and underwear, since it's not like it matters what they look like anyway, but I'd rather not keep a token of reminder of being attacked with freezing cold slush-drinks.

I sigh as I toss everything into the trash-bag. Such a cute outfit, gone to waste. Mercedes' jacket is more so stained on the inside than the outside, but there are some large splotches on the front that I know won't come out no matter how many times I get it dry-cleaned. These Slushies must be made out of food dye from hell, I'm telling you. _Jeez_.

I'll have to buy Mercedes another jacket. I'm sure she'll try to refuse, but there's no way I'm not going to pay for the damage caused to this one.

After all the clothes are in the bag, I tie it at the top, heave it over my shoulder, and leave the bathroom.

By the time I make it back downstairs, the trash-bag bouncing against my back with each step, I hear the tea kettle whistling its impatient arrival of boiled water.

I sit down on the living room couch and set the bag at my feet. "Do you need any help with the tea?"

"No, I've got it, thanks. Just rest, okay? Let me take care of you."

I smile at that, knowing if there's one thing I can count on with her, it's that she _does_ always take care of me, no matter what. Even back when I was a bitch to her, she was looking out for me.

A few minutes later, Rachel walks into the living room with a tray sporting two mugs of tea. There's also a little dish of cream, a bowl of sugar cubes, and two spoons. She sits down next to me, just a few inches between us, and lays the tray onto the coffee table in front of us.

"I didn't know how you like your tea, so I figured you could prepare it yourself," she says, nodding toward the cream and sugar and spoons.

"Thank you," I say, smiling at her before grabbing one of the mugs by the handle. The scent of ginger and mint drifts up into my nostrils, carried by gentle steam, fresh and delicious. "Wow, it smells great."

"It's the only kind we had," she says. "A mint leaves and ginger blend. I'm glad you approve."

I turn to her and see that she was watching my profile; our eyes lock, and, for some reason, her cheeks turn red, her eyes ducking down as she grabs her own mug. I look at her, hoping to catch her eyes again, but apparently the inside of her mug is _very_ fascinating, considering her vision doesn't budge from it.

We sip our drinks in silence for a few minutes, the kind of quiet that is somehow both comfortable and pressing at the same time, like it can't decide which one it wants to be.

I shift my grip on my drink, fingers leaving the handle to cup around its middle instead. The mug spreads heat throughout my hands, seeming to flicker renewed life into my veins as I take a gulp of the tea. It burns deliciously down my throat, seeping into my stomach, rejuvenating me inside-out with warmth. I hadn't realized how cold I was until I wasn't anymore.

A shiver skitters all over my skin, raising goosebumps at the memory-sensation of Slushie after Slushie scorching the worst kind of coldness all over me, until all of my senses were consumed with it, like a frostbite to my soul…

"Quinn?"

Rachel's gentle voice yanks me from my reverie; I blink a few times, release a shaky breath I hadn't known I was holding, and shiver again, chilled to the bone.

My eyes jump to hers and the mug trembles, just slightly, in my grasp. "Yeah?"

"Are you okay?"

I shrug and take another sip of tea, letting it chase away the cold again and leave a pleasant heat in its absence. "I don't…I don't know," I finally say, my voice quiet. "I'm…" I take another deep breath and force a smile. "The tea is great, thanks again."

"Please don't," Rachel says, abrupt with desperation.

"Please don't _what?_" I ask, brow furrowing in equal parts confusion and concern.

"Don't shut down on me," she says, calmer in volume but still fierce with the undercurrent of a plea. "You're always doing that lately; you retreat into yourself, and I have no clue what you're thinking." Her eyes are big, pleading, scared. She always has so much worry for me; she just cares _so much_, it's unreal… And that, more than anything, makes me truly warm inside.

"I'm sorry," I say with as much sincerity as I possess – which, trust me, is a whole lot. "Honestly, Rach. You do so much for me, and I know that sometimes I get all introverted on you, and that must be frustrating. But…I mean…I lived in a house for seventeen years where I was never able to talk about my feelings without being judged or having them brushed aside. My problems were always treated like a burden, especially by my dad. So sometimes it's hard for me to just open up and let people in, you know?"

Rachel presses her lips together and stares down into her mug again; curls of white-gray steam drift up from it, tickling against her chin, like ghostly fingers. "Yes. I can understand that, really. It's just…"

She looks back up, and the anguish in her eyes cut right through me, into me, slicing my next breath in half. "I hate to see you hurting, Quinn. You deserve _so much_, and I just feel so helpless, like nothing I do is ever enough to really make you safe and happy."

"Rachel," I say, a scolding sort of tenderness saturating my words, "Please, you have to stop blaming yourself. You have _no idea_ how much you've given me, just by being my friend. I don't know where I would be without you in my life – literally, since you're letting me live in your house and everything."

She nods, releases a shaky breath, and then smiles a shaky smile. "So…my dads should be here any minute. I think you should tell them everything that's been going on. No more hiding things from them; it's time they know. We really need some adult help, Q."

"You're right." I nod. "I'm going to tell them tonight. I promise."

"Tell us what?"

Rachel and I whip toward the voice, so startled that we both almost spill our tea. We were so absorbed by our conversation that we didn't hear her parents come in.

Hiram and Leroy stand at the entrance to the living room, a concerned sort of curiosity shining in their eyes, the former's head cocked to the side after his question and the latter's eyebrows lifted high.

My heart starts to beat harder, faster, knowing that there's no going back now. I have to come clean and tell them the truth.

"I'll go pour two more cups of tea," Rachel says, standing up and smoothing down her skirt. "Dads, why don't you sit down in those chairs across from us? I think this is going to be a long conversation."

They oblige, each sitting in one of the fancy wingback chairs. They swap worried expressions but smile at Rachel gratefully as she passes them. They turn their eyes to me next, and I stare into my mug, now knowing how Rachel was so fascinated by hers. I mean, wow, look at all the pretty shapes the steam makes! And the color of it – such a light amber. Truly captivating…

Rachel returns with two mugs, handing one to each of her fathers, before coming back to sit next to me. This time, there are no inches between us, our thighs and sides and shoulders squished together. My heart starts beating faster again, but a different kind of nerves than before.

"I'm right here," she whispers into my ear, placing a sturdy hand on my shoulder. "There's no need to be afraid of their reaction, okay? We're all on your side."

I nod at her, take a final pull of my drink to fill up my senses with its calming heat, and then set the mug down next to Rachel's on the coffee table, on one of the matching coasters.

After clearing my throat and taking a deep, steadying breath, I finally let myself look at Hiram and Leroy, let myself make eye-contact. I see how concerned they are, the caring frowns and the patient posture. Rachel's hand is still on my shoulder, anchoring me to this room and to reality.

And just like that, a feeling of comfort washes over me until I'm no longer nervous.

I'm ready to talk.

So I do.

"All right," I say to Mr. Berry^Squared, my voice clear and strong. "So, there's something you two need to know. It all started last Friday after first period because of a guy named Rick… No, actually, it started even before that, on Monday of last week, when I slapped him…"

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

I'm not sure exactly how long it takes to tell them everything.

The clock tells me it's been about forty-five minutes, but it feels like it took far less, the whole story flying out of me in half the time.

Rachel helped me out with some parts, but she never interrupted; she only picked up where I left off if I turned to her with a prompting stare. And her hand never once wavered from my shoulder, sometimes giving a gentle squeeze, then veering into a light massage.

Leroy and Hiram only cut in to ask questions, but I could tell they were struggling to remain as calm and composed as they could. Emotions flickered across their face, in their eyes – the most dominant was empathy, but there was also anger, even downright fury, aimed at my tormentors.

When I got to the end part, about what happened today with being attacked, and I pulled out the ruined clothes from the bag to show them just how bad the damage was, I could have sworn that Leroy was about to scream with rage, from the way his eyes got all wide and fiery, and how his mouth was set into such a tight line that the color bled from it. And Hiram didn't fare much better, his pale face now red and his nostrils flaring.

I must have cried myself out earlier, because no tears come, not even when revealing the darkest parts of the secrets. And, somehow, I don't feel scared and vulnerable letting them out; I feel…relieved, maybe even empowered, at finally having the guts to share all of this.

"So," I finish, dropping the clothes back into the bag and giving a stupid sort of shrug. "That's everything. Did I forget anything, Rach?"

She shakes her head, her expression grim and posture too-straight. "No, I don't think so. That's everything I know about, at least." She slides her hand from my shoulder and uses it to rub at the corner of her eye, which I now see is beginning to sparkle with tears. "I had no idea that you were shoved into the lockers," she says, so quietly that her dads can't hear her, so quietly that even _I_ almost can't. "Why didn't you tell me that before?"

I open my mouth to reply, but find that I have none. There's no good excuse, just the truth, that I was too ashamed and afraid to say anything. But I'm not now, the truth is finally out there, and that has to be enough.

"Quinn," Hiram says, making my and Rachel's eyes jump apart from each other's so they can swing to her dad instead. I see that he is still fighting to remain as calm as possible, most likely for my benefit, to help keep me calm, too. "Thank you very much for sharing all of this with us. I wish you had sooner, so that we could have put a stop to this right when it started happening, but it was very brave of you to tell us now."

Leroy nods and reaches a hand over to Hiram's, grabbing onto it and rubbing his thumb over the back of his husband's. "Yes, thank you, sweetie. You did the right thing, and we're proud of you."

"But who we are _not_ proud of right now," says Hiram, his stare cutting pointedly at his daughter, "is Rachel."

Rachel's lips part to argue, but then she starts chewing on her lower lip instead. Her gaze falls to her lap; she sniffles.

"What?" I ask, sitting up in alarm. My brow furrows. "What did Rachel do?"

"_Nothing_," says Leroy. "That's the point. She did nothing." Then, he directs his attention from me to her. "Sweetheart," his tone is somehow both scolding and caring at the same time, "You should have come to us about this. I can understand why Quinn would be too nervous to, since she doesn't know us as well as you do, but we're your parents. You two are just kids, babygirl. Why didn't you reach out to any adults?"

Rachel's head lifts back up; her eyes are filled with tears and guilt. The red-hot color of shame rises in her cheeks. "I didn't want to go behind Quinn's back," she says. "She made me promise not to tell you guys. I was just trying to support her and not betray her." She quickly turns to me, now apologetic. "I'm not trying to throw you under the bus."

"I know," I say, resting my hand against her upper arm for a moment. "It's okay."

"You may have thought you were helping her, but sometimes it's more dangerous to keep someone's secret than to tell it to someone else who you know is trust-worthy and responsible," Hiram points out. "But we're not blaming you, Rachel. We're just disappointed that you didn't think it was best to come to us."

"I'm sorry," Rachel says, the tears falling over. Her eyes zip around, from her papa to her daddy to me, and back again. "To all of you, really, I'm sorry."

I wrap my arm around her shoulders. "Don't worry about it."

"Oh, honey, we don't want you to cry," Hiram says, frowning, guilt now arriving in his eyes. "You're not going to be punished or anything. Your daddy and I are just trying to understand things, okay?"

Rachel nods, her eyes squeezing shut and face squeezing up. She lifts her hands to cover her face; her shoulders start to shake under my arm.

"Oh, come here, babygirl," Leroy says, his voice soothing now, that cadence of softly rolling thunder.

She stands and walks over to him, letting him envelope her in a big hug. Hiram gets up and joins in, waving me over with his hand.

"You too, Quinn," Leroy says, voice slightly muffled by the top of Rachel's head pressing into his face. "Don't think you're exempt from this group-hug."

"You probably need it most of all," says Hiram.

I hurry over and let their arms pull me into the middle, my own wrapping around somebody's shoulder, somebody's waist. We embrace for a long moment, until Rachel's stopped sniffling and my heart is warmer, beating steadily.

I grab Rachel's fingers with my own and pull her back to the couch, where we sit together across from her parents again.

"Now we need to think of how to move forward from here," says Hiram.

"You said that there will be a meeting at your principal's office on Monday morning?" Leroy asks me.

I nod. "Yes, but I'm supposed to bring my parents, and considering we're not exactly on speaking terms right now…"

Hiram bats a hand through the air. "No need to worry about that. Leroy and I will come with you as your guardians."

"You can do that?" I ask. "I mean, you _would_ do that?"

"For you?" Leroy smiles, his eyes softening with it. "Anything, sweetheart."

"And as for if we 'can' or not, well, you obviously don't know the Berry family very well." Hiram winks, making me and Rachel giggle. "We never meet a problem we can't solve."

"Honesty, respect, and dance," says Leroy. "Those are the foundation of the Berries."

My giggle blossoms into a full-fledged laugh. Sounds like a good enough motto to me.

"We'll need to take those ruined clothes with us to your principal," Hiram says, a thoughtful gleam in his eyes, looking up at the ceiling. Determination is starting to sear into his tone, so much like Rachel's when she's set her mind to something. "We'll want to have as much evidence as possible on our side."

"You should wear a tank top on Monday," Leroy tells me, "to show the bruise on the back of your shoulder, from when you were thrown into the lockers." His eyes flash with anger at this last part.

"That's a good idea!" Rachel says before turning to me. "And you'll want to break into tears _at least_ twice. Trust me, as a '_fragile'_ young girl," she puts finger-quotes around the emphasized word, "nothing will help get your way with Principal Figgins more than crying in front of him. That's how I helped get that creepy and perverted Mr. Ryerson fired."

I can't help but to grin at all of their advice. "Thanks, you guys," I say, and boy do I mean it. "I think we may actually be able to get Rick and his cronies punished once and for all."

"Oh, trust me," Rachel says with a proud smirk. "After my dads are done talking with Principal Figgins, those nasty boys won't be able to lift even so much as a finger of harm at anyone ever again."

And from the scheming look in all of the Berries' eyes, with determination so thick in the room that it's almost palpable, I know I've got the right guys on my side. I definitely don't envy those stupid enough to go against them in a fight.

Rick and his Dickettes have no idea what's coming.


	38. Chapter 38

This was originally meant to be in the last chapter, but with the help from peev3s on Tumblr (thanks again!), I decided that including it would make the chapter a bit too long and cluttered. The Principal Figgins and Rick stuff won't come until the chapter after this one; so, sorry to disappoint if you thought this one would be about that. But I do hope that you still enjoy this chapter for its own merits. :)

Please remember to review! :D

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><p><strong>CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT<strong>

I get to pick dinner for the night, so I decide on pizza, since it's something I love that can be made in a vegan version for Rachel.

Once the pizza arrives (delicious as always), we all squeeze onto the couch and watch a funny movie. Buttercup sprawls out on the floor by my feet, joining in on the fun. It reminds me of the family movie nights I used to have with my parents, only so much better.

With my mom and dad, we were all completely silent throughout the movie, someone shushing whoever dared to speak, whether it be to ask a plot question or to pass the popcorn. But with the Berries, they all get so into the movie that it's as if they're interacting with the characters, yelling out things to them, posing debates about their motives in the middle of a scene, commenting on the wardrobe. A lot of people might find this annoying, but I love it.

Everyone has such funny commentary to add (Hiram in particular; I never knew he was so hilarious), and for once, I can gush over how attractive I find the lead female actress and be rewarded by "_awww_"s and giggles of agreement, rather than blushing to myself and keeping my mouth closed. I can be myself, no worries, just enraptured in the story unfolding onscreen and the conversation unfolding on the couch all around me.

It's so happy and perfect and makes me feel so _at home_, that, the moment when the end credits start rolling, I find myself already looking forward to whenever we watch the next one.

Afterward, Rachel and I do our homework before she takes a shower, and then after that, we watch another movie by ourselves in her room. It's _Funny Lady_, the sequel to _Funny Girl_ – of course Rachel convinced me to watch a Barbra Streisand movie. She told me that she's going to get me to watch every one of the woman's film repertoire, which is fine by me. To Rachel's utter delight, I inform her that I'm starting to become a fan of Barbra myself. Definitely not up to Rachel's enamored caliber yet, if ever, but I find myself appreciating the woman's killer voice and unique good looks.

"I think that's the best thing you could've told me!" Rachel squeals, so excited that she does an adorable happy-dance.

Later, I climb into bed with Buttercup and settle under the covers. I fall asleep in a happy mood, wishing that all nights could be like this.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

The next morning, I wake up to sunlight spilling into the room, casting a warm glow all across my bed.

Buttercup stirs awake next to me, licking my hand as I scratch behind her ears. I check my phone and see that it's almost eleven-thirty, my usual Saturday morning sleep-in time. I have a new text message from Rachel. It reads:

THE Rachel Berry*:** Come to my room right after you get this, please. :)**

I get up and stuff my feet into my slippers, letting Buttercup out of my room to bound down the hallway and disappear down the stairs. She barks a few times at something but then stops.

After going to the bathroom to brush my teeth and comb my hair, I walk over to Rachel's bedroom and knock.

"Come in," she calls, so I do, shutting the door behind me.

Sure enough, she sits at her desk chair, dressed in a navy blue, knee-length dress with a cinched-in waist. She wears no shoes but does wear a pair of thick, mustard-colored socks that stretch all the way up her feet to the top of her calves. Her long, glossy hair is wavy, with her bangs curled-under and the same rosy red color on her lips that she wore yesterday.

She's so beautiful, and when she looks over at me, a grin overtaking her face, its brightness is even more radiant than the sunshine I awoke to in my room. My stomach feels warm just looking at her.

And when she speaks in her chipper tone, butterflies rush in to join the sensation. "Hey, sleepyhead!"

I chuckle, smile softly. "Hey, early bird. You look really nice" (understatement) "but why? Are we going somewhere? Saturday is supposed to be 'stay at home and be lazy in your pajamas' day, you know."

"Hmmm, I must have missed that memo. Well, I just thought I should get dressed and put on a little make-up. You know, you may want to change into some clothes, too." The twinkle in her eyes, the _too_ casual lilt to her voice… She's up to something.

I lift my eyebrows and cross my arms, smirking. "Oh really? So we _are _going somewhere?"

"No," Rachel shrugs with an innocent pout, her eyes widening. Yep, she's _definitely_ up to something. "I just think you'd prefer to be wearing clothes and not your sleep shorts. I mean, the shirt is fine, but, you know…" She shrugs again, all the way up to her ears this time.

"Wow, such a compelling argument," I snicker. "You really got me there. Okay, fine, I'll go change."

"Just make sure you come back here right after, okay?" she says as I move for the door.

"Sure, whatever you say, weirdo."

She laughs in protest as I exit her room and go back to mine. Shaking my head in amusement at Rachel's antics – whatever they are this time – I swap my shorts for a pair of dark denim jeans, and swap my gray cotton shirt for a hot pink, scoop-necked top from Anthropologie. I put on a gold-chained necklace with a turquoise pendant dangling from it, and a pair of gold stud earrings. After applying some pink lip-gloss and a little bit of blush and mascara, I slip into a pair of flats and go back to Rachel's room.

I left the door half-open, so I don't bother knocking, slipping inside and closing it behind me with my heel. Rachel looks up from her cell phone and, upon seeing me, throws it behind her, onto her bed, with a panicked expression, as if it just turned into a snake. Which, okay, _weeeiird_, but what else is new this morning?

"I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille," I joke, striking a dramatic pose.

Rachel's alarmed face melts into delighted amusement instead as she giggles. "You look adorable," she gushes, her hands jumping together and up to her chin.

"Thank you, Miss Berry," I say, still in a fancy tone. "Now, as you surely have something up your sleeve, how about you let me into that scheming mind of yours?"

Grinning like the cat that caught the canary, Rachel leaps to her feet and cocks her head to the side. "Why, what ever do you mean, Miss Fabray?" she asks, batting those killer lashes. "I'm just sitting her, minding my own business. Can a girl help it if she wants to look her best?"

I press my lips down on a huge smile and roll my eyes. "You're impossible."

Now that I'm closer to her, I notice she's wearing her gold 'R' necklace; she used to wear one that read 'Finn' instead, so seeing her brand herself with her own initial rather than her dim-witted boyfriend's name is a pleasant surprise.

"Have I ever told you how much I love your necklace?" I ask.

I'm not being entirely selfless here; maybe if I compliment this one, she won't go back to wearing the 'Finn' one ever again. Maybe she'll even throw it away for good! … What? Don't look at me like that. A girl can dream, can't she?

"I don't believe you have," she beams. "Thank you! I love yours, too, but maybe we need to get you a 'Q' necklace. Ooh, it can be like our own special friendship charms!"

I grin ear-to-ear at that. "Sounds good to me!"

"I'm hungry!" Rachel says after a beat, rather randomly and abruptly, as if she just remembered how important this hunger was to her.

"All right then," I say, reigning in my suspicion, though one of my eyebrows does quirk upward at its own volition. Sometimes I can't control the damned thing. "Care to accompany me down to the kitchen to get something to eat?"

"I would be honored!" Rachel chirps, offering a jaunty elbow. I slid mine through and do a little curtsy. We leave her room together, a skip to our steps. I feel like such a goober, in the best possible way.

As we reach the top of the staircase, I hear noises down below, voices overlapping. "Do you hear that?" I ask.

"I guess my dads have the TV turned up a bit too loud," she replies.

We're halfway down the stairs by this point, the living room coming into view. Her dads are nowhere in sight, and the TV isn't even on. But that's not what makes me stop dead in my tracks, yanking Rachel to a halt with me. It's not what makes my jaw drop and a sound that is half-laughter, half-surprise burst from my mouth.

"What are you all _doing_ here?" I ask with a grin that is both confused and delighted.

The entire Glee Club (minus Mr. Schue) is spread out in Rachel's living room, some sitting down and some standing up, but all of them are _here_, beaming back at me, a few of them waving.

I look over at Rachel, who is watching my reaction with the biggest, most giggling grin you've ever seen. "Surprise!"

"But my birthday isn't until another two weeks."

"This isn't for your birthday," she trills, tugging me forward by the elbow.

"Then what _is _it for?" I ask as we descend the rest of the staircase and walk all the way into the room.

"You'll see," Rachel says, dropping my elbow to join the rest of the Glee Club, now gathered together a few feet in front of the couch.

My eyes land on Santana first, giving me a special little smile. Just seeing her again after a week of barely any contact makes so much happiness spill through me.

She and Brittany are both out of their uniforms and high-ponies and into fashionable clothes and flowing hair. Their pinkies are locked as they snuggle into each other's sides, and I have to stop myself from running over and throwing myself onto them in a tackle-hug.

"I must really love you if I'm up before noon on a Saturday," Santana says, prompting me to laugh.

"Same here," says Puck.

"Don't just stand there," Kurt says with a chuckle at my awe-struck face.

"Take a seat!" Blaine motions toward the couch, beaming wide enough to show every white tooth.

I sit down on the middle cushion, my stomach filled with warm and fuzzy butterflies, somewhere between nerves and excitement.

"Okay," I say slowly, eyes narrowing but mouth still curved into a smile, "What's going on exactly? I feel like I'm about to get an intervention."

"No, not an intervention," Artie insists.

"Something much better," Tina says with an excited grin.

"Yeah, trust us," Mike says from his spot next to her, his arm looped around his girlfriend's waist.

"We all know you've been hurting," Mercedes chimes in. "Especially after what those jerks did to you yesterday after school."

Sam, who is standing next to her, close enough that their hands keep brushing, offers me a sweet smile. "We've been working on this all week."

"We were going to wait until Monday at Glee, but after you got attacked and stuff yesterday, Rachel mass-texted us all and convinced us that it would be better to surprise you with it over the weekend," Finn explains.

My heart pounds quicker with anticipation. "Seriously?" I ask, directing my amazed expression at Rachel. "You organized this?"

"Yes," she says, overflowing with pride and joy. "But it was a collaborative effort, believe me. We all want to show you how much you mean to us."

"We're a family," Santana says, "as much as I try to deny it. And you're a huge part of this family, Q."

"Yeah, you're a really awesome Rainbow Sparkle Unicorn, but we know you forget that sometimes," Brittany adds.

"Which is why we're all over here at Berry's house on a Saturday morning," Puck finishes, "just so we can make sure that you know we're always here for you."

"Wow." I shake my head in flattered astonishment. "I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything," Rachel's smiling such a special smile, like we're the only two in the room. "Just listen."

As if that's their cue, everyone starts to sing the backing vocals, their voices acting as the instruments, blending together into one beautiful melody.

Artie hums into the opening note before he starts off the first solo, all rhythm and soul as he waves his gloved hand in the air, feeling the emotion. "_Ooooh, yeeahh…Sometimes in our lives, we all have pain; we all have sorrow. But if we are wise, we know that there's always tomorrow_."

Mercedes picks up the next verse, her gorgeous voice softer than usual but somehow even more powerful. "_Lean on me when you're not strong. I'll be your friend; I'll help you caarrryyy ooonnn. For it won't be long 'til I'm gonna need somebody to lean on._"

Santana comes in next, the raspy quality of her voice intensified with such tender emotion pouring out. "_Please, swallow your pride if I have things you need to boorrooww._"

"_For no one can fill those of your needs that you won't leett shoowww,_" Puck sings, clear and strong and beautiful.

By this point, my crazy-happy ear-to-ear grin is turning wobbly at the edges; my eyes are growing itchy and hot, and I have to keep blinking to stop the moisture from forming. My face is flushed, my body warm and tingly all over, but even more so on the inside.

Now they all sing to me, with such passion and purpose, dancing and making silly faces and having fun with it: "_You just call on me, brother, when you need a hand! We all neeed someboooddy to leeeee-eeeaan on! I just might have a problem that you'll understand! We all neeed sooomebooodyy to leeaann on!"_

It makes me start to laugh these shaky laughs, clutching at my stomach, which _hurts_ from how much happiness is surging inside me.

"_Lean on me when you're not strong,_" Sam sings the next solo as the others do backing vocals around him. His voice is pure and sweet and everything I love about him. "_And I'll be your friend; I'll help you caarrry ooonnn._"

"_For it won't be long,_" Brittany picks up, her voice making up in conviction what it lacks in mechanics, "_'Til I'm gonna need somebody to lean on_."

My eyes are filled with tears at this point, and I keep smiling and giggling, touched to the very core, so many blissful feelings singing along in my soul.

They all come together again, even more into it now than before, if that's possible. Their bravado could be an entity all its own, let me tell you. "_You just call on me, brother, when you need a hand! We all need somebody to lean on! I just might have a problem that you'll understand! We all need somebody to leeeaann oonnn!_"

Rachel steps forward next, her eyes linking with mine. As she starts singing in her perfect ear-candy voice, bursting with meaning and affection, that does it – the tears well up all the way and fall over, and now I'm crying and smiling at the same time, feeling like a balloon swelled to bursting with happy helium.

"_If there is a load,"_ she sings, "_You have to bear, that you can't caarrryyy._" She closes her eyes and pushes a hand through the air before opening them again to latch back on mine. "_I'm right up the road; I'll share your load if you just caaalll meeee_." She winks and grins cheekily, flashing the 'call me' sign with her pinkie and thumb, holding it up to her ear. It makes me laugh harder, shaking my head in delight.

"_Ooh, it won't be long,_" Mercedes' voice is quiet at first before rising in volume and power,_ "'Til I'm gonna need somebody to lean on, lean on, leeaaann ooonnnn, ohhhh!_"

As Mercedes sings, Rachel reaches out, closing the distance between us and grabbing my hands with hers. She pulls me to my feet and into the group as they all start belting the final chorus.

I'm dancing with everyone, laughing and fresh tears in my eyes (and some in theirs, as well) as they sing their hearts out. Mercedes occasionally comes in with a louder repetition of what everyone else just sang before, and it's all so powerful and amazing that I close my eyes. I let this incredible moment and all of the love I feel absorb right into me. When I open my eyes again, they dance me around the circle, passing me off, some giving me side-hugs, some ruffling my hair, but all sharing smiles.

"_Call me (if you need a friend); call me (call me; uh-huh). Call me (if you neeed a frrieennd). Call me (caaalll meee). Caaallll meeee. Ohhhhh, caaallll meeee!_"

They finish with one hell of a high note; I'm almost surprised the chandelier doesn't shatter above us.

Then they burst into applause for each other while I burst into tears.

"Oh my God," Finn says in a concerned whisper that I don't think he realizes is actually loud. "She's crying."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Puck asks, just as worriedly.

"Definitely a good thing," I say, peeling my hands from my face and beaming at them through watery eyes. "Thank you all _so much_." I swipe underneath my eyes with my fingertips and shake back my shoulders before sweeping my now-cleared vision amongst the group.

"When my parents found out who I really am and abandoned me because of it, I thought I was left without a family," I say. "But I was so wrong – I've always had a family. A big, crazy, amazing one: you guys." I smile, sacred and tender. "So, thank you for reminding me of that today. And for sticking by me and loving me, no matter what."

"_Awwwww,_" Tina wipes away a tear and nestles into Mike's side.

"I love you guys," I say, my voice cracking with emotion.

"We love you too, girl," Mercedes smiles.

"A whole freaking lot," Brittany adds.

Rachel slides up beside me and slips an arm around my waist, pulling me against her. She closes her eyes and lifts her opposite arm in the air, beckoning her fingers every which way. "Ah, yes," she says with her typical dramatic flair. "I feel a group-hug coming on."

"It's too early in the morning for that," Santana says, but she's one of the first to start forward with her arms out-stretched.

"It's almost the afternoon," Sam points out.

"Anything before twelve p.m. is the crack of damn dawn to me," Santana says, earning an agreeing nod from Puck.

Soon, we're all hugging together in a mosh-pit of love, with me at the center, soaking it all in.

And never, in all my life, have I ever felt more at home.


	39. Chapter 39

Yikes! What do I even say? Over a month without an update; I am so sorry, guys! I could give you a laundry list of excuses for how I've been busy, blah blah blah, but even though it took me longer than I would have liked, I'm here again, aren't I? :) A giant, massive, heeeuugggeee thank you to all of you for the continued support and such sweet and amazing reviews! :D I truly appreciate them from the bottom of my heart.

I hope you enjoy this next chapter! Please let me know what you think (and don't be too mad at me for how long it took to post it. Here, have some virtual cookies of your favorite flavor to compensate! Mmmm, yum, see? All better now!).

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><p><strong>CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE<strong>

"Do you remember what we talked about, girls?" Leroy asks as he, Hiram, Rachel, and I walk up to the entrance of the school. He doesn't even give us a second to answer before he does so himself. "Stay strong, but not emotionless; a nice blend of crying and being bravely resolute is the best way to go. You don't want to overdo it with the tears, but you don't want to come across as a robot either."

"Don't forget to show what's left of your bruise, Quinn," says Hiram, pausing to hold the door open for us. We all smile our thanks as we pass. "And make sure you leave your stained clothes out and in the open the entire time, so your principal doesn't forget about them for a second."

I've never seen them like this before; Leroy and Hiram are like a pair of fashionably dressed soldiers going into battle. They wear expressions of life-or-death seriousness, and their posture is so no-nonsense and perfect that I wonder if they have a ruler taped to their spines.

"Daddies," Rachel says from her spot next to me, our elbows looped together. "Take a deep breath. It's going to be okay."

"Damn right about that, babygirl," Leroy growls. "We're going to _make_ it be okay."

Rachel turns to me; we share the tiniest of amused smiles. It really is cute how determined they are.

"Are _you_ okay?" she asks, quiet enough that only I can hear.

Principal Figgins' office looms ahead, coming into view, and it makes a bundle of nerves swarm into my stomach. Right beneath my skin itches, this annoying feeling of discomfort, the swirling black of the unknown future threatening to suffocate my senses.

But then I feel her skin against mine, my arm tucked into the crook of hers – truly _feel_ it for the first time since we started walking down the parking lot. I look over at Hiram and Leroy and see how in sync they are – wearing coordinating ties, marching stride for stride, and that same take-no-prisoners attitude in their eyes, which is there for _me_. I remember my Glee family serenading me on Saturday, that special surprise, and how warm and happy and at home I felt.

And just like that, like a flashlight illuminating under the bed to show there's no boogeyman after all, I feel my fear lift away. Like a storm cloud chased away by a huge, bright burst of sunshine. I'm overcome with peace, with confidence, with the knowledge that _I can do this_. I am Quinn _freaking _Fabray, thank you very much, and I can do whatever I damn well set my mind to. And that includes facing off against my biggest tormentors with my principal and having to spill my story all over again.

So when I bring my eyes back to Rachel's concerned ones, the smile that pulls up my lips is genuine, even sparking in my eyes, sparking in my veins. "Yeah," I say. "I'm definitely okay. Are you?"

"I will be when this whole thing is over and the verdict is announced," Rachel says. We've almost reached Figgins' office by now. "I can't relax until I know for sure that victory is ours. You can never get overconfident; that can be the death blow."

I nod, but any reply I had for that disintegrates on my tongue as we enter the front office. It figures the only ones here already are Figgins and his receptionist; we _did_ get here thirty minutes before school, since Mr. Berry^Squared insisted that 'the early bird gets the worm.' I'm thinking they meant the worm was Rick and that we'll be devouring him whole and showing no mercy –at least, that's how _I_ like to think of it.

The first part of the front office is a waiting area with the secretary across from us at her desk. Next to her is the door leading into Principal Figgins' actual office. I can see through the glass walls that he's sitting in the chair behind his desk, on the phone. He looks stressed out already, rubbing at his forehead.

We exchange pleasantries with the secretary and sign in at the designated sheet before piling onto one of the couches. I feel like I'm at the doctor's office waiting for the nurse to call me in for a check-up. It's that same blend of bouncing anticipation paired with the impatience of just wanting to get the damned thing over with already.

It's five minutes later when somebody else arrives; the Berries' and my necks turn as one toward the door, watching as none other than Sue Sylvester strolls in. Of course she wears one of her signature tracksuits (black with pink stripes down the side this time). With sharp purpose, she whips her sunglasses from her nose and transfers them onto her head.

When her eyes come into view, dark blue and beady, they scan over Mr. Berry^Squared, Rachel, me, and then back again, in a slow, deliberate movement. Her eyes narrow as they finish their trek.

"Well, Q," she says, "Either your mom got a sex-change and your dad became an entirely different ethnicity, or these two gaily-dressed gentlemen are not your parents."

"You would be correct," Leroy says, he and Hiram standing up to offer their hands at Sue. "I'm Leroy Berry and this is my husband, Hiram."

As Sue shakes both of their hands at the same time, her arms pumping up and down vigorously, her mouth sours up in a pucker. "So you two are responsible for breeding mini-Barbra."

"Why, yes, thank you," Hiram says with a proud beam of a smile, dropping Sue's hand before sitting back down with Leroy. "We certainly are."

"I didn't say it was a compliment," Sue says, making Hiram's smile twist into a frown.

"Q," she turns to me again. "Where are your _actual_ parents?"

It's strange to have her addressing me directly after so many months of no contact at all. She wrote me off as a non-entity the second I quit the Cheerios, and what, now she wants to be all chummy again? I don't think so.

"They couldn't make it," I say, looking her dead in the eyes, my tone daring her to challenge me, "So, Rachel's dads are here to represent my guardians instead."

"What do you mean they couldn't make it?" Sue demands.

Rachel sits up straighter and folds her hands in her lap, quirking her head at Coach Sylvester. Ooh, she's honing in on her own HBIC flair; I've never been more proud of her.

"She means that she no longer affiliates with Russell and Judy Fabray, and that my parents are here for both myself and for Quinn. I don't see how that's so hard for you to grasp, Ms. Sylvester." She smiles this charming, people-pleaser smile, but her eyes are fierce.

I would be terrified if that attitude were thrown my way, but since it's used _for_ my benefit, well… I just find it really freaking hot.

What? Feisty Rachel is one of my favorite kinds of Rachel (well, they're all my favorite, but this one is extra-great).

Sue stares at our group, and it's strange because she doesn't look like she wants to antagonize us. Instead, _impossibly_, she looks like she's accepted this turn of events and is fine with it.

"All right, Gay Dad One and Gay Dad Two," she says. "Be here for both Lesbian Betty and Jewish Veronica for all I care, but good luck passing this over with Figgins." But her eyes are softer than before, as if she really _is_ wishing us good luck and doesn't mean it in her usual sarcastic bravado.

Mr. Schuester and Ms. Pillsbury arrive at that moment, followed by Mr. Figgins entering the waiting room from his side of it, off the phone but the stressed look not off his face. The Berries and I all stand up from the couch.

"Ah, good, all the teachers needed are here," Figgins says, nodding at the group. "And Miss Berry, I see you have brought your joyfully diverse fathers. And Miss Fah-bray… Wait, where are your parents?"

Before I can explain, Sue beats me to it. "Siegfried and Roy here came in their place."

Figgins heaves a long, loud sigh. "I thought I made it clear that guardians from each child should be present today. Mr. Berry and Mr. Berry are not the same as Mr. Fah-bray and Mrs. Fah-bray. I cannot hold a meeting regarding possible punishment when the correct parental figures are not involved! Miss Fah-bray is a minor; my hands are tied!"

"Excuse me?" Leroy roars, ferocious enough to make Figgins jump. "How dare you say who can and cannot be someone's guardian just by what's on a piece of paper?! Do you not know anything about parenting, or are you as incompetent at that as you are with running your school and letting kids get bullied left and right without doing a damn thing about it?"

"You say your hands are tied now, but you just wait and see how tied up you _really_ are when you get lawsuits and complaints after you do yet _another_ thing to alienate one of your students! You _should_ be helping Quinn in any way you can and not isolating her even further." Hiram seethes so hard that his upper lip snarls like a rabid dog.

"Whoa, whoa, whao," Mr. Schue steps forward and holds up his hands. "We're on your side here, Mr. Berry and…uh, Mr. Berry."

"Yes, there's no need to yell," says Ms. Pillsbury, her big brown eyes twice as wide as usual.

"Why don't you calm down?" Figgins asks with a desperate amount of placating, but it is the _wrong_ thing to say.

"'Calm down?'" Leroy thunders. "'_Calm down?_' Quinn was attacked on Friday! She was cornered and assaulted with a bevy of frozen beverages" okay, that's officially my new favorite phrase "and where were any of you to stop that from happening?"

"Not to mention when those disgusting posters were put up mocking her all around the school," Hiram adds. "I can't believe you didn't do anything when _that_ happened."

"I think this is clearly a waste of our time, Hiram," says Leroy, lifting his chin in the air.

"I couldn't agree with you more, Leroy," Hiram nods and folds his arms over his chest.

"Here comes the storm-out," Rachel whispers to me with thinly-controlled glee. And damn it all to hell if I'm not fighting back a pleased smirk of my own.

It feels _great_ to have them fighting with me, _for_ me. I feel like I can do anything, anything at all.

In perfect unison, Leroy and Hiram pivot on their heel and start to march out of the office.

"Where are you going?" Figgins asks, voice rising with a hysterical plea. "Wait!"

"Do we follow them?" I whisper back to Rachel.

"No; just wait," she winks at me, and we share a quiet little giggle.

"We're going to drive down to your supervisor's office and have a word with him," Hiram snaps over his shoulder. They're almost at the door by now.

"Okay, okay!" Figgins cries, rushing forward. "Stop, please! You can both stay as Miss Fah-bray's guardians. There is no need to cause such a ruckus. We will work this out as civilized adults."

Hiram and Leroy turn around and walk back over, calm now, as if that entire fight hadn't just happened.

Rachel whispers in my ear, her tone saturated with smugness, "I taught them that."

"Glad you're willing to be reasonable," Leroy says, and I swear his lips are twitching away a smirk.

"Yes, good thing you saw it our way," says Hiram. "We wouldn't want to cause any trouble."

Rachel stares straight ahead, but the corner of her mouth nearest me lifts up in the ghost of a smile; she wiggles her hand behind her back, and as subtly as I can, I reach my arm over and slap her five.

There's a burst of voices as not just one but _all_ of the Glee Club members start spilling into the room. None of them have their parents with them; not that they need any, with the authority that rolls off them like a force all its own.

"What are you guys doing here?" Mr. Schue asks, eyes going wide.

"Sam, Puck, and I came because we were witnesses to what happened on Friday," says Mercedes.

"And the rest of us are here on behalf of not only Q, but the entire student body of McKinley," Santana says, cocking a hand on her hip and glaring at Figgins. "Rick and his posse of idiots have Slushied each and every one of us at one point this year. And since you refused to do anything about them putting up those nasty smear-campaign posters and instead suspended _me_ for being the only one with the vagina enough to deal with it, we're making sure that they don't get to walk away free this time."

"Yeah!" Artie pumps a fist in the air. "What she said!"

Principal Figgins massages his temples with his fingertips. "_Oy vey_," he mutters to himself. "I feel a headache coming on."

I look at the clock on the wall; there's only a few minutes left until the warning bell rings for first period. Rick, Carl, Rex, and Marcus should be here by now.

"Where are they anyway?" I ask. "Did they coward out and decide not to show?"

"No, I see them coming down the hall," Mike says, craning his neck. "They're in a group with their parents."

"All right, all right," Sue yells as everyone starts talking at once. She sticks both forefingers in her mouth and blasts an ear-piercing whistle that shuts us up. "Here's what's going to happen. The merry band of misfits is going to wait outside in the hallway for the time being."

When the Glee Clubbers start protesting, Sue holds up a hand to silence them. "You'll all get your chance to yap your pieholes at Figgins when it's your turn, but it's too crowded in here right now, so march your disgustingly peppy butts back outside and wait to be called in."

"As for you four," she swivels toward me and the Berries, "Go take a seat in the principal's office. You can tell your story first, and then the hillbilly hockey hooligans who started all this will go after."

"And you!" She points a finger at the secretary, whose eyebrows jump at the action. "Go into my office and get those interrogation lights stored in my closet."

"Sue, for the last time, you cannot use those giant lamps anymore!" Figgins says, eyes bulging with exasperation. "They use too much electricity; the last time you cross-examined a student's case, you blew out a fuse for a _week_."

"Fine," Sue huffs, whipping toward the secretary again. "Forget the lamps. I'll, uh, just take a coffee instead. Make it black."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

By the time I'm done with my side of the story, first period is already over.

Rachel and I are excused to go to class just as the bell for second period is ringing. We hug the Berry men goodbye, and I thank them profusely.

As Rachel and I head to my locker so I can put my things away, she asks, "So, how do you think it went?"

"As good as possible," I say. "We did everything we talked about, but when it came down to it, I was just as genuine and honest as I could be. Now all we can do is hope that everything works out for the best."

"It will," Rachel insists. "Trust me; it _has_ to."

The rest of the day seems to take forever. Classes drone on, the quiz I have to take in History seems excruciatingly pointless, and even lunchtime isn't that fun when most of our group still isn't back from Figgins' office.

By the time the last bell of the day is singing its siren song of freedom, I'm racing out of the room so fast that if there were an Olympic recruiter nearby, I would be signed onto the track team right then and there.

I meet Rachel at her locker as planned before we head down the hall to Principal Figgins' office. When we arrive, we see that everyone else is already there: Mr. Berry^Squared; all of the Glee Club; Rick, Marcus, Carl, Rex; and a parent or two for each for them.

We start to walk over to join the Glee Club and Rachel's dads; I hold my head high when I pass by Rick but am stopped by a hand on my arm.

I turn and come face-to-face with Mrs. Nelson. She has the same height and broad-shouldered build as her son, but clearer skin, kinder eyes, and a much better haircut. Her grip is right above my elbow, somehow both tight and gentle.

"Quinn?" she says, like it's a question.

"Yes?"

"Rick has something he wants to say to you." She drops my arm and looks to her son instead; her eyes turn hard and serious, cutting into him like a knife. She jerks her head my way, prompting him to turn his sheepish gaze away from her and onto me instead.

"I'm, uh, sorry," he mumbles.

"Speak up," Mrs. Nelson snaps. "Like you mean it."

Rick blushes, his eyes darting from my left to my right and back again, before landing between them. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice husky with an emotion I can't pinpoint. "I shouldn't have done all of those things to you."

"You're damn right you shouldn't have," Mrs. Nelson says. "That's not how we raised you, Ricky! We did not raise you to be cruel and to put down others."

Rick looks away from me before I can say 'it's okay' to him, but the truth is, I'm glad, because I don't think I actually believe it's okay. I haven't forgiven him yet, if ever. He was an absolute asshole to me time and time again, long before this whole mess even started, and some half-assed apology his mom forced him to give is not going to cut it.

I smile, small but sincere, at his mother instead. "Thank you, Mrs. Nelson. I really appreciate your kindness."

"Of course, sweetie," she says, returning my smile. "I had no idea my son had done those things to you until he confessed to them in the office a few hours ago. I'll have to apologize to your parents the next time we're at church. Where are they, anyway?"

"They're not here," I say. "And you don't need to apologize to them, really. They won't even know what you're talking about." I turn away from her and grab Rachel's hand, who was standing next to me the whole time to offer silent support. I pull Rachel away from the Nelsons and toward our group instead.

Carl and Marcus' parents make them apologize to me, too. It's more than I expected, and I'm grateful to parents who actually own up to their children's behavior. The only ones who don't say anything to me are Rex and his dad; they just look indifferent when I walk by.

Just as I'm giving Puck a hug hello when we reach the Glee Club, the door to the office swings open. Mr. Schuester, Ms. Pillsbury, Coach Sue, and Figgins all stand inside.

Figgins steps forward. "Will the parents and their children please come inside now?"

"That means that the New Directions need to stay in the hallway," he adds sternly when they start to move forward with us.

Once the designated people are all inside, Principal Figgins closes the door behind us. His back is to the glass wall behind him, so he can't see the Glee Club rush forward and press their ears against the pane, clamoring to get the best eavesdropping positions they can.

"After speaking with all of you present, and telephoning the school board for a long, detailed conversation, I have finally reached a suitable punishment for the tormentors of Miss Quinn Fah-bray."

Leroy grabs Hiram's hand, who grabs Rachel's hand, who grabs mine. I hazard a glance over to the Dick and his Dickettes and see that they're starting to appear nervous.

"Rick Nelson, Carl Smith, Rex Phillips, and Marcus Jones will all suffer the same penalty," Figgins says, and I find myself holding my breath for a moment. "The four boys are sentenced to two-weeks of at-home suspension, effective tomorrow. They will be expected to keep up with their coursework and tests even while away. When this suspension ends, they will be moved to an in-school suspension facility, where they will finish out their senior year. They will still be able to graduate and walk the stage, but other than that, their privileges have been revoked. This includes but is not limited to: extra-curricular activities such as sports and clubs and the upcoming prom. Yes, this means that Mr. Nelson's name will officially be removed from the prom king ballot."

The boys have been complacent until now, but at this last part, Rick releases a loud grumble of protest. "Are you kidding me?!"

"_Psh_, like you would have won anyway," Santana scoffs, loud enough to be heard even from behind the glass.

"Be glad you're not getting expelled," Mrs. Nelson tells Rick with a sharp glare.

"That's it?" Hiram asks after a heavy silence.

"Yes," Figgins nods. "I believe this is more than fair." He lifts his eyebrows at the Dickettes. "But if any of you are to torment so much as even one more student ever again, you _will_ be expelled. There is now a zero-tolerance policy, and not just for physical violence."

Leroy looks at me. "What do you think, Quinn?"

Great, now _all_ eyes are on me. But rather than wilt under the pressure, I stand up straighter and lift my chin in the air. "I think that all sounds fair," I say to Figgins. "But there's one more thing you need to do."

"Which is?" he sighs, exhausted already.

"Get rid of the Slushie machine," I say, wait a dramatic beat, and: "For good."

"But those Slushies bring in thousands of dollars of profit per week!"

I cross my arms and tilt my head at him. "And a lawsuit against the damages caused by them will cost even more than that."

"Point taken," Figgins forces a smile. "All right, I will call the company to remove the Slushie machines tomorrow."

"Thank you," I smirk, and I could swear Coach Sylvester was trying hard not to do the same.

I hear an uproarious cheer behind me; the Glee Club is dancing around and whooping it up. "No more Slushies! No more Slushies!" some of them are shouting.

I can't help but to guffaw in delight; Rachel bursts into chortles beside me, and we squeeze each other's hands in victory.

After we all sign some papers that Figgins has to give to his superiors, proving that we were here for this conversation, the Berries and I exit the office.

"I'm proud of you, Quinn," Hiram says, ruffling my hair. I flush with pleasure.

"Me, too," Leroy gives me a quick squeeze of a side-hug.

"Me _three_," Rachel links arms with me, just like at the beginning of the day, only this time we're walking away from victory rather than marching into the unknown.

"Thanks, you guys," I say, "for everything. I don't think I could have gone through my testimony alone."

"Sure you could have," says Leroy. "But we were happy to help."

"So, do you ladies want to go out for ice cream?" Hiram asks.

"Only if we go to the place that has the vegan kind," Rachel says.

"Of course, babygirl," Leroy says with a playful scoff and eye-roll.

"That sounds great," I grin. "But how about we do it later tonight?" I pull Rachel against me and gesture with my neck to our Glee family, who are waving at us to come over to them. "We have another meeting to go to first. And I think I feel a solo coming on…"

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

"Hey, Quinn," Mr. Schuester calls as he enters the choir room. "Come here for a second."

It's about fifteen minutes after the meeting with Figgins, still on Monday. All of my Glee family is already here in the choir room, mingling around, some sitting down, but each with their own Slushie drink in hand. It was Tina's idea that we all drink one today, sort of in an ironic celebration that they'll be gone sometime this week. I think it's the first time in Glee Club history that we can actually sip the damn things without feeling bitter toward them or paranoid of having them not in us but _on_ us in the future.

I set my cup of green apple Slushie next to Rachel's grape on the floor, then stand up and walk over to Mr. Schue. "Yes?" I raise my eyebrows with polite curiosity.

"I just wanted to say that I'm proud of how strong you were today," he says, smiling with a sort of fatherly affection that is usually only reserved for Finn. Despite the frosty drink in my system, it makes me feel warm inside.

"Thanks," I say, smiling back, maybe just a bit shy on my part. "I appreciate that, Mr. Schue."

His eyes start to twinkle with excitement. "The club put something special together for you. If you go sit down again, I'll signal them to give it to you."

"Do you mean the serenade of 'Lean On Me'?" When Mr. Schue's face falls with confusion and he starts to ask "how did you kn – ", I interrupt him with, "They came to my – er, Rachel's house and performed it for me on Saturday. It was really sweet."

I feel bad that I've seemed to dampened his mood, so I add, "But there's something that I put together to perform as a solo today. Could I do it right now?"

Mr. Schue's smile returns in full-force. "That would be great!"

"Okay," I swivel to face the room and clap my hands together. "Guys, would you all take a seat, please? I have a song I want to sing."

In no time, they're all sliding into their regular chairs; Mr. Schue hops onto his stool. And there's Rachel, front-row-center, giving me an encouraging grin, such pride in her eyes. She's the only one who knows about my solo, considering she helped me rehearse it, like, _all_ day yesterday.

I return the smile to her, then let it sweep across the room, gracing each one of these people, my true support system.

Excitement courses through my veins, firing me up. I honestly can't remember the last time I got to perform a solo. The last time I even sang at all at Glee was with Rachel, two months ago during our Bublé/Twain mash-up. The memory of that is warm and bright and powerful, like a blast of sunshine right into my soul, making any nerves I have melt away in favor of a special thrill.

"I've been through a lot these past couple of months," I say, my voice calm and clear and strong; everyone's eyes latch onto me, as enraptured as they are sympathetic. "From my parents kicking me out of my house, to some idiots kicking me out of the closet to the entire school – things haven't been easy. But somehow, with help from all of you, and with some strength from myself that I didn't even know I had, I made it through."

I lick my lips as they pull back into a tender smile, eyes glowing with vulnerability. "Someone once told me that I'm stronger than I know." My vision falls to Rachel, who has tears filling her eyes, her mouth tugged back in a dimple-popping whisper of a smile.

"But now," I say, still locked into her warm amber-browns, "I _do_."

I cast a prompting nod to Brad over my shoulder, who smiles before flipping to the designated page in the sheet music I gave him earlier. His fingers start picking out the haunting melody on the piano, and I turn back to the group. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and when I exhale, I let out not just air, but every feeling of doubt I've ever had, every bad memory, every time I've thought I wasn't good enough.

My eyes open and the song starts, soaring not just from my throat but from deep inside my heart. My voice starts out soft, building in power and surety with each word.

"_Feeling broken_

_Barely holding on_

_But there's something so strong_

_Somewhere inside me_

_And I am down but I'll get up again_

_Don't count me out just yet"_

I close my eyes again and let it all fly out, this whirlwind of emotion, seeming to spin around me in a tornado-like entity, an imagined wind picking through my hair and stroking warmth all over.

"_I've been brought down to my knees_

_And I've been pushed way past the point of breaking_

_But I can take it_

_I'll be back_

_Back on my feet_

_This is far from over_

_You haven't seen the last of me_

_You haven't seen the last of me"_

Raw vulnerability sears through my voice. I move around the room, a simple sort of dance, if even a dance at all, more so just commanding the area around the piano as my stage. My eyes take in everything but see only the sunlight spilling into the windows, washing over me like a spotlight.

"_They can say that_

_I won't stay around_

_But I'm gonna stand my ground_

_You're not gonna stop me_

_You don't know me_

_You don't know who I am_

_Don't count me out so fast"_

My hands clutch over my heart, clawing at the desperate way it beats, as I fall to my knees, my eyes squeezing shut yet again against an abrupt onslaught of tears. They don't even have time to well up, just storm right in and start pounding against the back of my lids.

"_I've been brought down to my knees_

_And I've been pushed way past the point of breaking_

_But I can take it_

_I'll be back_

_Back on my feet_

_This is far from over_

_You haven't seen the last of me"_

I jump back to my feet and let my eyes pop open, the tears pouring out, streaming down my face. But for once, crying doesn't make me feel weak. It makes me feel strong, like it's cleansing me, washing the impurities not just from my skin but something underneath, something deeper below.

"_There will be no fade out!_

_This is not the end!_

_I'm down now_

_But I'll be standing tall again!_

_Times are hard, but I was built tough_

_I'm gonna show you all what I'm made of!"_

My voice is louder and more powerful than it has ever been. I hit high-notes that I didn't think were even in my range. My voice doesn't crack on emotion; it _owns_ the emotion, harvesting it in each syllable, dripping with vulnerability, with determination, with a bit of pent-up rage, and most importantly, with conviction.

"_I've been brought down to my knees!_

_And I've been pushed way past the point of breaking_

_But I can take it!_

_I'll be back_

_Back on my feet!_

_This is far from over_

_I am far from over_

_You haven't seen the last of me"_

I swipe at some more tears that fall. I've never known how Rachel could cry during her solos all the time, but now I can't imagine _not _feeling such indescribable emotion bubbling straight from my toes to my hairline, vibrating my very being with the truth of so many feelings.

"_No, no!_

_I'm not going nowhere!_

_I'm staying right here_

_Oh no!_

_You won't see me begging_

_I'm not taking my bow!_

_Can't stop me_

_It's not the end"_

My voice is quiet now, soft, yet never more invincible.

"_You haven't seen the last of me_

_Oh no_

_You haven't seen the last of me_

_You haven't seen the last of me."_

The final note is clear and sparkling and beautiful, like fresh rain spilling down onto flowers, something I didn't know I was capable of until I tried.

I swipe away the last of my tears, smiling at my friends like never before, feeling like a whole new woman, a whole new _me_.

And then they explode into applause, jumping to their feet in a standing ovation rife with quickly-clapping hands, wolf-whistles from Puck, tears from many, and cheers from all.

I burst into these delighted, breathless giggles, my chest heaving out pants from the excursion of the song, my heart drumming in every pulse point. I give a curtsy, soaking up the moment.

Rachel runs over and crushes me in a hug. Then Sam joins us, followed by Brittany, then Santana, and I think I see Puck's Mohawk towering in our circle, but there are so many bodies around that everything sort of melts together in a big pot of love.

But one thing that stands out on its own is the happiness I feel, like I'm on top of the world and will never be knocked down again. And even if I am, the thought doesn't scare me, because I know that I'm capable of picking myself right back up again.

And if I ever need any help, all I have to do is turn to any one of the people in this room.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

It's a few minutes after my solo, and everyone but Puck, Rachel, and I have taken their seats already.

Puck stands on one side of me; Rachel, the other.

"You did a great job," Puck says with a tender smile. "I didn't know you could even hit some of those high-notes."

"Thanks!" I beam. "Rachel helped coach me through them last night."

"Oh, please," Rachel pulls a face and bats a hand through the air. "It was all you."

I smile at her, my eyebrows lifting just a bit at her modesty. But my surprise melts away when I see in her eyes how happy she is for me; it's the most selfless I think I've ever seen her.

"Okay, everybody," Puck says, with a sudden burst of volume, yanking my attention back to him. He slings an arm around my waist and pulls me into his side. "I have something I need to ask our girl Q." He squeezes my hip before releasing me and taking a step back.

I have no clue what he's up to; my lips jump back into a curious smile as one of my eyebrows quirks up. "Yeeeessss?"

Puck bends down on one knee and reaches out to grab hold of my left hand, clinging tight. With his other hand, he stretches behind him to pull something from his back pocket.

A laugh of pure delight – and more than a little confusion – bursts from my throat. "What? Are you _proposing?_"

"Yes," he says with a matter-of-fact tone but a playful gleam in his eyes. He pulls his hand out from behind him to reveal an unwrapped, bright red Ring Pop. It shines like a candy ruby.

There are some joking catcalls and a lot of enthusiastic applause. From beside me, Rachel unleashes an adorable squeal and falls onto my shoulder. I laugh again, shaking my head at Puck, at Rachel, at every one of my dorky friends.

"Quinn," Puck says in a dramatic voice, peering up from his long lashes with his best smolder. I raise the back of my right hand up to my forehead and pretend to swoon. "Would you do me the honor of going to the prom with me and making us _the hottest_ couple there?"

There are some "_awwww_s" from Tina and Mercedes, and some "heys!" of protests when he calls us 'the hottest couple' (coming from Santana and Brittany, and Kurt and Blaine).

Puck slides the Ring Pop onto my left ring finger; there are a few pieces of lint stuck to the sides of it from being inside his pocket, but other than that, it gleams up at me in all its cherry-flavored glory.

I stare down at it, my heart filled to bursting, and my lips stretched impossibly high with happiness. But then my eyes drop to his, still peering up at me with expectance.

"I'm sorry, Puck." One corner of my mouth droops down so that all that remains is a lopsided apology of a smile. "This is really sweet of you, but I'm not going to prom."

Puck stands up and brushes his palms against the knees of his jeans before shooting me a confused look. "What do you mean you're not going to the prom? You're running for Queen, aren't you?"

"Not anymore." I thought everyone would have figured that out by now, or at least assumed…but judging by the sudden murmuring that explodes behind me, I guess not.

"But Quinn!" Rachel cries. "You _have_ to go! Prom is a once-in-a-lifetime experience and one of _the_ most important high school milestones out there!"

"I know, but…" I try to say, but Santana interrupts me.

"If you don't run against me, then my victory will be a total landslide, with no real competition, which is just so _boring_," she says, standing up from her seat and planting her hands on her hips.

Brittany stands up beside her and nods a few times. "The Unholy Trinity has to make a lasting legacy on such a special night, Quinn."

"Why don't you want to go?" Puck asks, quirking his head to the side like a concerned puppy.

I open my mouth to reply but come up with nothing. I can't think of why I don't want to go. It was so obvious a few days ago, but now, with this giant support system, and after having just performed such an empowering song for myself – well, I realize that I _do_ want to go to prom.

"Actually," I say. "Never mind. Yes." I nod a few vigorous times, my smile returning in full-force, squinting at the corners of my eyes. "I would _love_ to be your prom date, Puck."

Everyone bursts into applause and cheers as Puck lets loose a "whoop!"

"So, does this mean you're still going to run for Queen?" Santana asks, walking over, pinkie-in-pinkie with Brittany. "We can help you make some new campaign posters."

I shrug. "Why the hell not?"

"That's the spirit!" Brittany cheers, diving forward to high-five me.

I laugh, the feeling rich and warm, and though I couldn't care less if I win Prom Queen anymore, not even a little bit, I'm just proud of myself for even trying in the first place.

Tomorrow, I will not be afraid to come to school, for the first time in a week that has felt like a month.

Tomorrow, I will start my campaign anew, with the help from my amazing friends.

Tomorrow, the students at McKinley won't know what hit them.

Watch out world, here comes Quinn Fabray! Back and better than ever.

* * *

><p><strong>The song Quinn sang was "You Haven't Seen the Last of Me" by Cher. Go give it a listen if you so desire; it always makes me cry when I think of how much it applies to our little Quinnie. :')<strong>


	40. Chapter 40

Once again, thank you all for the wonderful reviews! Your support means so much to me. :D Since I took so long updating, I have a special treat for you guys - three chapters in one night! That's right; I'm not stingy. I've got three finished, so why not post them all at once since you had to wait so long in the first place? As always, I hope you enjoy, and feedback would be amazing to get from you lovely people. :) Thanks again!

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER FORTY<strong>

Walking into school Tuesday morning feels a bit like walking onto a stage, opening night of a new play, and hoping that I give a knock-out performance and don't forget any lines.

But, you know, without really knowing any of the lines in the first place.

"You're not nervous, are you?" Rachel asks. "I'm right here, okay? You can hold my hand if you want to."

I'm not nervous at all… Okay, maybe just a little bit. Mostly, I'm excited. My stomach is filled more with butterflies than knots, and my heart keeps squeezing in anticipation. It feels good to know I'm putting myself back on top, finally making the climb.

I give her a grateful smile. "I'm actually not that nervous."

Rachel smiles back and grabs my hand anyway. Okay, _now_ I'm kind of nervous. But a good kind of nervous. A _glorious _kind of nervous.

We got to school forty minutes early. There are only a few other people milling about in the hallways, too caught up in their own lives to pay any attention to mine.

Our first stop is to meet Brittany and Santana by Britt's locker.

"Hey, guys," I call out as we approach them. Santana stares at my and Rachel's hands, fingers-intertwined, swinging together between our hips. She drags her gaze up to meet mine and cocks an eyebrow, but I ignore it. "Did you bring the posters, Britt?"

"Yep!" Brittany chirps, holding up a large stack of posters. "I have all yours, exactly how we made them last night."

'Last night' refers to when Britt, San, Rach, and I all went to Brittany's house to brainstorm campaign theme ideas and then spent the next few hours executing them onto thick cardstock paper. I think Rachel was in delighted shock the entire time, hanging out with the Unholy Trinity at Brittany Pierce's house, now an official part of the group she had wanted to belong to for so long.

"You ready to hang these up?" I ask, turning to Rach, whose eyes are gleaming with pride and joy – I guess she's reminiscing about last night as fondly as I expected.

"You betcha!" she says, and – tragically – has to drop my hand in order to grab some posters from Brittany.

Rachel and I go one way and Santana and Brittany go the other; in twenty minutes, we've plastered the halls with my face. 'VOTE QUINN FABRAY!' and 'FABULOUS FABRAY FOR PROM QUEEN!' scream from the posters in different colors of glitter paint, right over a picture of my beaming face.

I had the idea that we paint rainbows in the upper corners of my posters, as a nod to the previous smear-campaign tactics of Rick and his crew outing me. Now that I really am out, I figure it's time I start being proud.

It was Santana's idea to write on the bottom of my posters in her small strokes of angry black Sharpie: 'YOU VANDALIZE THIS POSTER; I VANDALIZE YOU! – Santana Lopez.' So now if someone wants to write a nasty message on them, they'll remember Santana's fist smashing Rick's nose a few weeks ago, and hopefully it will scare them enough to stop.

Or, even better, soon they'll realize that _I _am a force to be reckoned with, and they won't bother with me because they know I'll fight back.

But do you know what my favorite part of the posters is? It's not how awesome my hair looks (seriously, I was having a great hair day yesterday), or how Rachel's lip-print faintly smudges some of them from when she kissed a few for good luck (though that is wonderful, trust me).

It's the fact that Finn Hudson is not in any of them, nor is there any other prom king candidate I have to run with. It's just me – take it or leave it. I'm running my own campaign, just for myself, and _that_ is most liberating of all.

As it becomes fifteen minutes, and then just ten minutes, before school starts, floods of people arrive, gushing through the front doors and spreading out in great clumps throughout the hallways. I watch as they take in the new addition to the walls, stopping to stare at my posters.

Some roll their eyes, shake their heads, and then walk away. Some whisper to each other, point, and try to find me, to see my reaction to it. Some giggle; some smile; some don't care at all. But all of them are reacting to something that _I _created, that I chose to represent who I am.

For once, they're talking about me and not their _idea_ of me. I'm not hiding anymore.

So, you know what? I think multi-colored glitter paint may just be my best look yet.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

English class is glorious today. _Glorious!_

Because Rick the Dick is not here, ladies and gentleman. He's at home, suspended, and I'll never have to see the back of his head in my class ever again. I can't stop smiling at this victory, knowing that my biggest tormentor and his posse of idiotic assholes are finally gone.

Second period, I walk in and everybody gapes at me. I have no friends in this class, no one to talk to. The teacher isn't here yet. But I'm not scared of the class ganging up on me, or whatever it is they'll do.

Instead, I cross my arms over my chest, raise my eyebrows, sweep an annoyed stare around the room and say, my tone dripping with multiple layers of HBIC, "_What?_"

Most people look down at their desks or out the window. A small, squirrelly guy named Martin asks, "So, like, it's all over your new posters… It's official, right?"

"What's official?" I ask, acting already bored with this conversation, but inside, my heart beats faster.

"That you're…you know…" He lowers his voice to a scandalized whisper, as if that will stop all the other students from listening in – of course it doesn't. "…_Gay_."

Boy is this dude late for the party. Wasn't that made glaringly obvious last week, if not because of the vandalized campaign posters but because I announced it to the people in the hallway right after I was Slushied? But I see from the curiosity burning through everyone's eyes – they want confirmation, from the source itself. Gossip isn't enough; they need me to assuage the curiosity eating away at them.

"Yep," I say with a shrug. I step forward and cut him with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"No." Martin blushes and sinks down in his chair.

I hold my breath, my heart starting to pound again, as I wait for somebody else to say something. For somebody to start cussing me out, lunge at me; for them to attack me with either words or fists – I don't know which would be worse.

I'm met with silence.

I exhale and, a small smile curling at my lips, take my seat.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

It's when I'm walking in the hallway before third period with Kurt and Blaine that I see Marcie and Stephanie, the cheerleaders, up ahead. They stand together at Marcie's locker, just a few over from mine.

I know what I have to do.

I turn to Blaine and Kurt, both to my right, huddled together and chuckling about some inside joke. "Hey, you guys?" They whip toward me. "Go ahead without me. I have to stop at my locker first, and there's something I need to do."

"Okay."

"Sure; no problem."

We part ways with a smile and a finger-wiggle of a wave. But I don't need to go to _my_ locker at all; I already have my supplies for next period.

Instead, I walk right up to Marcie and Stephanie. Marcie's dark brown ponytail is so high and tight that it pulls the skin back from her scalp. Stephanie wears _way_ too much eye-makeup for the daytime.

My pulse is hammering, fast and eager, and my stomach does a little flip. This will be fun. I've planned this scene out many times in my head, telling these bitches off since they were so incredibly rude last week.

"Hello, ladies," I say, sugary-sweet.

They turn toward me; Marcie's entire face pinches up, as tight as her ponytail, disgust etching wrinkles at the corners of her mouth. Stephanie's jaw drops and a hand pops to her hip, like how dare _I_, lowly Quinn Fabray, speak to _her?_

"_Ew,_ what do _you_ want?" Marcie demands.

"Did we give you permission to talk to us?" Stephanie sneers.

I have to fight to keep my perfectly _lovely_ grin in place, but I know my eyes are flashing with anger, so I'm probably wearing more of what Santana calls my 'serial-killer smile.' My head is even cocked to the side, oh-so-innocently.

"Actually, I came to apologize," I say. This is obviously so _not_ what they expected to hear: they exchange quick, confused looks before turning back to me with newfound suspicion.

"I'm sorry if I made you two feel uncomfortable, thinking back to our time together in Cheerios and wondering if I ever got all pervy and checked you out when we were changing." I release a pouty little sigh and shrug one shoulder in defeat. "I just can't help it that I'm a big, fat, _raging_ lesbian."

They appear completely dumbfounded, at a loss for words, wanting to insult me but not sure how to proceed.

I go in for the kill, leaning in and saying, my voice oozing reassurance, "But you don't have to worry about me ever noticing you two in that way. The thing is, I'm only attracted to _pretty_ girls."

With that, I lift my hand and wiggle my fingers in a preppy wave, then drop them down one-by-one until only the middle finger is left standing. I spin on my heel and start to saunter off when Marcie shrieks after me, "You bitch! Y-you _dyke!_ You bitchy dyke!"

I turn back around and let all pretenses of sweetness drop away in favor of stone-cold HBIC. "Oh, honey," I say, poisonous with pity. "You're really going to have to do better than that. But, you know what? Here's some advice for you: I've heard about your past, how many was it? _Three_ boys in a row who dumped you after the first date? Maybe you should switch over to my team; you may have more luck with the ladies."

My face hardens into a glare as I drag my eyes from Marcie's furious face to Stephanie's shocked one, and back again. "Actually, never mind. We don't want you either."

Maybe I was a bit harsh, but the truth is, I've wanted to put a verbal smack-down on those two cretins since the first time I met them.

I flounce off without stopping this time, smirking with the thrill of victory.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Nancy Pettison is next.

I stop by her locker on my way to lunch; my finger taps her shoulder to get her attention.

She swivels around, thick, bushy brown curls bouncing. "Oh, hi, Quinn." She smiles, soft but friendly. "I was wondering when – or _if _– you would talk to me again."

"Yeah," I scratch at the back of my neck and let out an awkward chuckle. "About that… I'm sorry for biting your head off. You were just trying to help, and I took out all my frustration on you."

"You're already forgiven." She flicks it away with her hand. "I may have been a little impatient, too." A look of guilt crosses her face as she says, "Um, yesterday, I heard about the Slushie attack that happened on Friday… I wanted to reach out to you again, but people were saying how you stood up for yourself against Rick and spent yesterday fighting against him in the principal's office, so I figured you were okay." She tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear, revealing a silver hoop earring. "Are you? 'Okay,' I mean."

"Yeah, actually, I am," I say with a smiling nod. "Or at least, I'm finally getting there."

"I'm glad to hear that. You deserve to be happy, Quinn."

"Thanks, Nance. You're a good person." I slug her on the shoulder, a dorky move that makes us both roll our eyes and giggle.

"Just, don't let those idiots tell you that you're unlovable for who _you_ love. Like, there are plenty of churches out there that don't preach against sex-same love, but rather embrace it, 'cause, like, love is love, you know?" Nancy says. "I don't know if there are any here, but I could help you find one?" It sounds like a question, and she shrugs at it.

"Thanks, but I'm good for now." I appreciate her concern, and I hope my eyes show it. "But if I need any help, I know who to call."

"Quinn!"

Nancy and I both crane our necks to see Brittany, down the hall and waving at me with her entire arm. "You're going to be late to lunch!" she shouts.

"Yikes, and _I'm_ going to be late to class!" Nancy's eyes grow wide as she slams her locker shut and adjusts her bag up her shoulder. She starts to walk off, but pauses to cast a grin at me. "By the way, I am _loving_ the new campaign posters. You've definitely got my vote."

I laugh at that, flattered. "Thanks. For what it's worth, I'll vote for you, too."

"Sounds like a deal." She seals it with a quick thumbs-up before hurrying off.

I wave at Brittany and head over to her, thinking that even if Nancy's vote is the only one I get, I'll be happy, because at least I'm going to prom in the first place.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

As Brittany and I enter the lunch room, Sam pops up from out of nowhere and tugs at my elbow.

"Quinn," he says, sounding urgent, desperate. "I need to talk to you."

"Okay." I give him a concerned frown, worry already starting to run through me as I prepare for the worst. "Britt," I turn to shoot her a nod, "Go on without me. I'll meet you at the table later."

Sam's hand remains clamped to my elbow as he yanks me off to the side of the cafeteria, where no one pays any attention. It's right by the window and a giant garbage can, which thankfully doesn't stink yet.

"What is it?" I ask, peeling his hand off of my arm but squeezing it gently before letting go.

"I want to ask Mercedes to prom," he blurts out, then looks away, his cheeks turning pink, as if he hadn't meant to say it in the first place.

I blink at the abruptness, my mouth curving slowly but surely into a smile. Finally, I laugh and roll my eyes, tossing my arms in the air for a moment. "Why did you just act like you were about to tell me somebody died or something? This is _great_ news!"

"It is?" He swings his eyes back to me, his top teeth chewing at the corner of his lower lip.

"Why wouldn't it be?" Okay, now I am seriously confused.

"Oh, well, I guess… Uh, I just thought…" He shakes his head. "Never mind then."

"No, tell me; what is it?"

"I thought you might be mad at me if I wanted to go out with someone else, so I wanted to ask your permission first. You know, like, I didn't want to make it awkward, since we used to date and all…" His eyes dart to mine, over my head, and then back again.

"Yes, and we broke up because I don't like guys, remember?" I remind him with a playful amount of '_duh_.' "Look, Sam, you know I never stopped loving you as a friend. All I want is for you to be happy and to find someone worthy of how happy you make _them_. Which you will, because you're kind of amazing." I shrug one shoulder at that, as if the simplicity of the action will take some of the weight from the heavy meaning of my affection. My eyes are a little wet – just a _little_ bit – when he holds out his arms and pulls me in for a hug.

"Thanks, Quinn!" he gushes. "You're the best!"

I hug him back, melting into the embrace. I'm just so glad we can finally put all the weirdness behind us and be friends again. For a while there, I thought he'd never forgive me.

"I know," I joke. "Now go ask Mercedes before somebody else snatches her up! A girl like that won't be single for long."

"You are so right," Sam says, nodding with deadly-serious, wide eyes. "But, well, she doesn't have this lunch, so I'll have to wait to ask her when we have sixth period together."

"Sounds like a plan," I say. "And make sure to do some of your kick-ass impressions. I'm not even into guys, but those dorky moves of yours really turn me on." I waggle my eyebrows and pucker my lips.

We both burst into laughter. "Shut up!" He swats my shoulder and rolls his eyes, but he's grinning just as widely as I am.

A moment passes between our eyes, and with it, I feel my face soften. When I speak, my voice is quieter, a bit timid. "We're going to be okay, right, Sam?"

"No, Quinn," he says, flashing a gentle half-smile, his dark blue eyes gleaming with happiness. "We're going to be even better."

Just hearing those words makes every other problem in the world seem conquerable.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

After school, Rachel, Blaine, Kurt, and I have all congregated at my locker.

"I still can't believe you told off Stephanie and Marcie like that!" Rachel is gushing for, like, the tenth time since I told them the story.

"Yeah, when did you get so badass?" Blaine asks, looking impressed.

"Dahhling, she's _always_ been badass," Kurt says in a fabulous accent, pretending to lower imaginary sunglasses down his nose.

"Exactly!" I laugh, nodding and smirking mock-smugly. "Don't mess with me, Blaine."

"Trust me, I'm not stupid enough to," Blaine says with a chuckle.

Rachel watches us bantering with a sunny smile on her face.

"What?" I ask her, raising my eyebrows and struggling not to return my own goober-ific grin.

"Nothing, it's just… I feel like a proud mama bear watching her cubs finally get along," she says.

We all cackle at that. "You're so weird," I tease, nudging her in the side. "But we wouldn't have it any other way."

She looks down at her feet, nibbling on the bottom of her smile, and maybe it's just a trick of the hallway light, but I think she blushes.

"Hello, Blondie and Mini Barbara," a familiar voice – dry and oozing authority – barks from behind us. As one, the four of us spin around to face none other than Coach Sylvester.

"Porcelain," Sue nods to Kurt. "And Triangle Brows," she nods to Blaine.

Kurt huffs and rolls his eyes while Blaine lifts a hand and gingerly taps at his eyebrows.

Sue continues staring at him. "Seriously, it's like two caterpillars are humping above your eyes. It is _incredibly_ distracting," she says in a quiet, fascinated tone.

"Hey!" Kurt snaps, placing a hand on his boyfriend's shoulder and glaring at Sue.

She ignores his protest and turns her attention to me instead. "Q, I request your presence tomorrow before school, in my office."

"Um, I don't know…" I say, feeling a bit of nervousness slash through my stomach.

"Let me make myself clear." She leans forward, her arms crossing over her chest, and squints at me. "By 'request,' I mean, 'demand.' And by 'demand,' I mean, 'your perky, Pilates-toned ass had better be there, or I'm going to have to personally come into your first period class and escort you out myself.'"

"Well, when you put it like _that_," I roll my eyes, "_of course_ I'll be there."

"Good." She nods. "All right, I'll see you later then. Goodbye, Babs, Porcelain, and young Peter Gallagher."

"Seriously?" Blaine whines once Sue's out of earshot, whirling toward the rest of us. "You guys don't think my eyebrows are that bad, do you?"

"Of course not, sweetie," Kurt insists. "You know I think every part of you is beautiful, excess body hair included."

Blaine turns toward Rachel, his eyes desperate.

"You have a very…_distinguished_ look," she tries, offering a weak smile.

He whirls to me last, panic now overtaking his features.

I can't help but to crack an amused smile. "Your eyebrows are fine," I say. "Totally adorable. Now your bowties, on the other hand..." I trail off, earning a scoff and playful smack to the arm from Blaine and a laugh from Kurt and Rachel.

The mirth flowing between all of us is almost strong enough to make me not feel anxious about my meeting with Sue tomorrow.

That was, _almost_ strong enough.


	41. Chapter 41

**CHAPTER FORTY-ONE**

Wednesday morning before school dawns bright and early.

Too early.

I'm not scared or anything, but I just do _not _want to deal with Sue. She's…well, she's kind of crazy. I have no clue why she even wants to meet with me.

I stand outside of the cheer coach's office with Santana, Brittany, and Rachel. It's fifteen minutes before first period. I got here ten minutes ago and have been pacing in front of the door ever since. I figure it's now or never.

"Good luck," Santana says, linking pinkies with Brittany as they start to walk off. "You're going to need it."

"Thanks," I say, dryly.

Rachel grabs one of my hands and gives it a quick squeeze, transferring some of the strength from her smile to zip into my skin. "You have nothing to worry about, okay? And when you're done, I'll be waiting for you right here."

I nod, my own smile still tight at the corners but my stomach less knotted as I squeeze her hand back. I drop it and turn toward Coach Sylvester's office. After taking a long, shaky breath, I turn the knob and push the door open, stepping inside before letting it seal shut behind me with a final _click_ that gets cold nerves rushing back in.

Sue sits behind her desk, wearing one of her signature tracksuits along with a pair of eyeglasses slid down to the tip of her nose. She's flipping through some papers, her mouth pursued as she reads their contents.

Either she didn't hear the door opening and closing, or she doesn't care enough to see who entered (probably the latter, knowing her).

My heart knocks against my chest as I clear my throat, pointed and loud.

Slowly, she looks up, peering over her glasses with the utmost irritation. But when she sees that it's me, her face goes blank, all the annoyance slipping right off.

Being in front of her in her office provides a wave of emotion to crash over me. It's as nerve-racking as it is comforting, in an odd sense. It's so familiar here, in this room that I used to visit more times a week than I could count, conferring with her, sometimes even _plotting_ with her. It hasn't changed a bit – still the same posters lining the walls, the same lingering smell of her morning protein shake, and the same intimidating figure sitting behind the desk with a demeanor that _reeks_ of authority.

"You wanted to see me, Coach?" I ask, with more indifference than I feel and more confidence than I expected. I meant to call her 'Ms. Sylvester' instead, but the title 'Coach' sprang up on my tongue like muscle memory.

"Ah, yes. Q," she says, taking off her glasses and pushing the papers aside. The sound of my old nickname makes a sad sort of nostalgia creep into my veins. "Have a seat."

I obey, sitting down with a prim posture that would make Rachel proud, in one of the chairs across from Sue's desk.

My hands fold in my lap as I stare at her out of a controlled expression. Coach Sue straightens her shoulders back, her face still composed and blank but her dark blue eyes narrowing at the edges, sizing me up.

After at least a minute of heavy silence, she finally speaks, breaking first. As far as victories go, it's small, but is enough to make some of the knots unloosen in my stomach.

"Here," she says, scooting a box of Kleenex across the desk toward me. One white tissue puffs up from the opening, but I don't need it.

"I'm not going to cry," I say, lifting my chin higher in the air.

"Didn't expect you to," she says evenly. "It's just a formality. But if your eyes _do_ embark on a one-way ticket to Hurricane Harbor, you better dry them fast, before any grain of salt from your tears scratches my hardwood floor. I just had it waxed."

I nod, not really knowing how to respond to that. She always did have the weirdest way with words. "So…" I shift my arms up, folding them over my chest. "Why am I in here? What do you want?"

"Relax, Q." She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms, but with none of my scorn and with all of her typical, condescending ease. "You act like I forced you to come here and am going to go all French Revolution 'off with their head' at you. I wouldn't do that, because I'm here to _help_… Also, because my budget can't afford a guillotine."

"And why would _you _want to help _me?_" I demand, trying and failing to control the long-suppressed resentment stirring inside. "The second I quit the Cheerios, you tossed me to the curb, cut me off from any aspect of your life. You sneered at me in the halls, not even bothering with one of your famous insults, as if I was too much of a pariah to you to even warrant _that_ much."

Maybe it's just my imagination, but I think something deep and sad flashes through Sue's eyes, for just a fraction of a second, but there none the less. The corner of her mouth twitches, but I can't tell if its aim was up or down.

"Well," she finally sighs after a tension-loaded moment, "If you must know, I volunteered after finding out how the others planned to deal with you."

"The _others?_" I echo, letting incredulity drip from my tone rather than the nerves I feel setting back in.

"Mr. Schuester, Ms. Pillsbury, and Figgins."

"Wait… Am I in trouble? Are you going to _punish_ me?" My voice raises an octave at the word.

Sue holds out a hand, palm-out, and shakes her head. "Stop and use your brain in that pretty blonde head of yours. Why on earth would you be punished? Maybe for crimes against my eyesight with that obnoxiously _bright_ yellow dress you're wearing-" I shoot a quick frown down at my outfit "-but other than that, I don't see any reason why you should be in trouble. You're cleaner than Ms. Pillsbury after her twelfth shower of the day…" Then, as an aside to herself, "Seriously, she's more Windex than woman."

"Would you please just get to the point already?" I ask, honing in on all of my old HBIC ways. All of the ways that _she_ taught me how to master – trust me, I'm not blind to the irony here. "I don't _have_ to be here, and I have about a thousand other ways I'd rather waste my time than listening to you cut me down and talk to yourself."

She smirks with that special kind of pride she reserves only for a handful of people, and I hate, oh I _hate_ how it makes that old sense of empowered satisfaction fill me up inside at being graced with her approval. "I see you've still got your bite, kiddo."

I decide I won't talk anymore, just let her flap her lips for as long as she likes until she sends me on my merry way. I hope whatever she has to say is over with soon.

"I know you're wondering why you're in here," she says, "So I'll explain things more clearly. After the verdict was announced in blissful opposition to the butt-sniffing Neanderthals who attacked you with Slushies and disgraced this entire _city_ with those dead animals on their heads that they call 'hairdos,' myself and the aforementioned other three teachers convened in Figgins' room to further discuss where to go from here.

"We knew something had to be done with you; I mean, you go through being bullied like that, covered in enough rainbow slush to be confused with a gay Frosty the Snowman, that we knew it would be irresponsible not to get you some kind of help." She smirks again, this time with self-satisfaction, and jerks a thumb at her chest. "Which is where I come in, one Sue Sylvester, master at easing away the booboos of the soul with my own signature tough-love Band-Aid."

I lift my eyebrows. "You're kidding me, right?" Seriously, between Mr. Schuester, my Glee Club mentor who I interact with way more than the others; Ms. Pillsbury, who actually _is_ a trained counselor; and Mr. Figgins, the principal of the school, they go with _Sue?_ The one who kicked me from her life the moment I was no longer her little pet who would do all her bidding for her?

"Afraid not. I haven't 'kidded' with someone since April Fool's Day 1998, which resulted in an unfortunate lawsuit that I don't care to get into right now." She shifts forward and drops her hands to her desk, folds them on top of it with her shoulders squared. She really does look like some sort of a queen, with so much regality and seriousness rolling off of her in waves.

"Okay, so," I let my frustration burst out of me for a moment, my eyes flashing and my arms tossing up before smacking back onto my thighs. "Get on with it then! How are you planning on helping me? Because so far you've just sat there and listened to yourself talk, which certainly isn't doing anything for _me_."

I didn't know how much I was truly embittered toward this woman until I had the opportunity to lash out at her once and for all. These wounds cut deeper than I thought, not fully healed. Because, the thing is, I didn't just used to go to her for cheerleading techniques and, for a while, plans on how to take down the Glee Club.

No, there were occasions – rare but beautiful – when we would connect. Like when she told me stories about her sister – how much she loved the girl, funny anecdotes, even some sad ones. I would come to her after school sometimes to sit in her office and do homework while she did her own paperwork; I would lie and say I preferred the peace and quiet of her room than all the talking in the library, but we both knew I was really using the extra hours there after school as a way to prolong the inevitable of going home to pushy parents and awkward dinners.

And now all of the hurt and abandonment and _anger_ I felt from when she decided I wasn't worth her time just because I turned in my pompoms and skirt has bubbled up to a head inside of me, and I find myself fuming at her, my face getting red and my hands curling into fists.

Sue stares at me for a moment, everything on her face pinched tight, but then she releases this long, barely audible breath, and with it, all of her features sag into something sad and vulnerable, her eyes opening to reveal buried emotions.

When she starts talking again, it's with none of her usual bravado or patronizing tone. It's something real and raw, weighted with purpose. It's enough to make me stop fuming and actually listen.

"I remember when you auditioned for the Cheerios," she says with this sad kind of wistfulness. "You were so graceful and beautiful, so perfectly poised but fiercely determined – you were exactly like a young Sue Sylvester, but with less flawless bone structure." I would roll my eyes at that last part if I weren't so absorbed by the sincerity flowing through her compliments.

"I knew the minute I laid eyes on you that you were going to be someone special, someone worthy of the captainship one day," Sue continues, smiling softly to herself. "And you proved me right; you proved that you had what it takes to be just like me. But now I see you sitting before me after being to hell and back, and I see that I was wrong: You're not like me at all." She pauses and that smile flickers back, larger this time. "You're so much better."

My lips part and eyes grow wide; this warm blush spreads all over my skin, inside my stomach. I don't know what to say. I don't even know how to react. But it doesn't matter, because she's not finished yet.

"When I was your age, I was tormented all the time. It wasn't even necessarily things that happened to me firsthand, but just watching how cruel the world was toward my sister. That…" Her tone gets strangled on emotion, so she clears her throat before proceeding. "That really got to me. The way they looked at her, as if she weren't every bit as perfect as I knew her to be. And then the way they'd whisper about her in front of me, laughing." She shakes her head as if the memories are too painful, as if wanting to dislodge them from her brain.

"Do you know how I handled it?" she asks, and I know she means it rhetorically, so I just shake my head. "I went home and cried almost every day, but at school, when I was actually around the bullies, I didn't do anything. Not a thing. I ducked my head to avoid eye-contact when I passed by them, and I tried to be as invisible as possible. I think that's why I am how I am today – always needing power, needing to be in control and win things, and, of course, cutting other people down so I feel higher up than they are. I 'overcompensate,' making myself act tougher than I really am because I used to be so weak. At least, so says my therapist…as in, me. Only Sue Sylvester is qualified to counsel Sue Sylvester."

I nod in understanding; it all makes sense. Well, not her using herself as her own therapist… But other than that, I find myself sympathizing with her.

"I was weak, Q. In many ways, I'm still weak. But you?" She smiles again, this time more so in her eyes than through her mouth. "You're strong."

That warmth spreads through me again, this time tickling behind my eyes, sniffling at my nostrils. Before I know it, tears are forming, just on the brink of falling before I blink them back. I can't help it – my entire façade crumbles, no more indifference, no more blank stares.

"I see it in how you kept your head held high last week, even when you were jeered at," Sue says. "I see it in the way you faced off against those numbskulls on Monday. I've seen it every day since you quit the Cheerios and no longer bring others down to make yourself feel more on top. And I see it right now, in the emotion on your face, and how you're not afraid to show it – _that_, I think, is the bravest of all."

"You really think that highly of me?" The question is squeaky, filled to the brim with so many feelings.

"Of course. You know I don't say anything I don't mean, especially with compliments."

I take a rattling breath and let a smile spread up my face, my eyes opening up with vulnerability. A single tear starts to roll down my cheek, and rather than lift my hand, I let it.

"So," she says, "Just remember that. Whenever you come across any more yahoos who treat you poorly just for being exactly who you are, remember that you _are_ strong. Somehow, even after being raised by two sorry-excuse-for-a-parents, you turned out all right, Q."

At the mention of my parents, the bottom half of my smile quivers before collapsing completely.

"They're not worth the muscle effort it takes to frown," Sue insists. "I never did like your parents. Your Mom is like a Stepford Wife without the charm, and your dad? Well, I never trust anyone who uses their religion like a weapon. Also, his hair is _way_ too perfect." She shudders.

I have to giggle at that last part, just a little bit, and swipe away the few more tears that have fallen.

"I want you to know that I've never been more proud of you than I have been in these past couple of weeks. Not even when your perfectly executed basket-toss helped us secure the win at Nationals two years ago. So, maybe your Ma and Pop are too stupid to see what a wonderful daughter they have, but I'm not."

"Wow," I say, touched to the very core. "Thank you, Ms. Sylvester."

"Please," she says with a gentle smile but meaningful tone. "Call me Coach."

"Thank you, _Coach_," I say, and she gives a pleased little chuckle.

Her face becomes more serious than I've ever seen it before. "Now, hold on to your britches, because you're about to hear me say something that you've never heard me say before, and you'll never hear me say again." She sighs and locks eyes with me, hers loud with regret and conviction. "I'm sorry."

"I forgive you," I say, and I realize that I really do. It was easier to forgive than I thought.

We share a smile for a moment before it passes. She twists up her face and shakes out her shoulders, making a disgusted huff of a noise. "_Ack_, glad I got those words off my tongue. They taste _awful_."

She stands up, swipes her palms together. "All righty. I think that concludes this hormonal sob fest. Let's quit while we're ahead."

I stand up and wait for her to walk around her desk to see me out.

"You know," she says as she reaches me. "I know you quit the Cheerios so you could embrace your life as a Fruit Loop instead, but if you want back on the squad, I've got a uniform waiting with your name on it. Literally – the Sharpie I used to I.D. the tag is a bitch to come out in the wash."

I can't help but to laugh, both with humor but more so with appreciation. "Thanks, Coach, but my days of cheerleading are over. Good luck at the upcoming competitions though; with Santana and Brittany as your co-captains, and with you as the leader, there's no way you guys are going to lose."

Sue grins, her eyes sparkling. "You're damn right about that, Fabray."

We just stand there for a moment, neither of us making a move to start toward the door yet.

"I know that favoritism from teachers to students is discouraged," Sue says, "but, what the hell." She bats the concept away with an uncaring hand. "I've never been one to follow the rules. So, you should know that, besides Becky, you've always been my favorite, Q."

And at that, I can't help it: the tears from earlier rush in again, so fast that I don't have time to stop them before they're bursting out, and I'm bursting forward, my arms launching a squeeze of a hug around her waist.

She makes a surprised noise, her body stiffens, but then a second later she's relaxing and returning the embrace, holding me tight. When she speaks, her voice is full of laughter and tears. "I promised myself this wouldn't turn into a cheesy Hallmark scene, damn it." She sniffles. "Remember that my door is always open. Go out there and conquer the world like I know you can, and keep making me proud."

"Okay, Coach," I say. "I will."

"Good," she says, with a final squeeze to my waist. "Now, get the hell out of my office."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

The rest of the school day goes by without much to report.

I feel like I'm getting back on top. There are a few trip-ups along the way: some insults coughed behind my back, scathing stares, and some immature pea-brains wolf-whistling when Rachel and I pass by, walking close together. Too close, maybe, considering I'm in love with her and she still has a boyfriend, but… Who am I kidding?! _Too_ close? Nope, it's nowhere even _near_ close enough.

Speaking of her boyfriend… Well, I'll get to that in a minute. First, here come Mercedes and Sam, who from the looks of things, may have become Mercedes&Sam, if you catch my drift.

To set the scene: It's before Glee Club rehearsal, in the choir room, and they practically _skip_ over to me, Puck, and Rachel. From the way they're hand-in-hand, I figure Sam asked her out and the answer was 'yes.' I swear there are actual cartoon hearts bubbling around their heads.

"Hey," I say, tone innocent enough, but I know my eyes are sparkling with mischief. "Don't you two look cozy…"

"Yeah," Sam shrugs as if it's no big deal, but you should just _see_ the grin he wears. Like he just found out that they're making a new _Star Wars_ film and he's been asked to do his impressions in it. Way too adorable to be legal, really. "We kind of like each other, I guess."

Mercedes throws her head back and releases this giddy cackle that has all of us chuckling along with her. She bumps her hip against Sam's and uses their interlocked hands as leverage to pull him closer. "You should have seen the stops this boy pulled out when he asked me to prom. We're talking a poem which may or may not have had some parts written in _Na'vi_."

"What can I say? My blood runs Avatar-blue," Sam says, blushing almost as bright as his smile. He leans in and kisses her on the cheek.

"Oh, God, just get married already," Puck teases, but I know he's loving their cutesy banter, too, because he's fighting back a smile of his own.

Rachel and I exchange jubilant grins. "They grow up so fast," she jokes, pretending to swipe a tear away.

I laugh and am overcome with the urge to grab her face and just kiss her, right there in front of everyone. I know that seems random, but it's just this yearning I get – _often _get, really – to sometimes, at the most random times, just kiss her.

So, of course, my stare falls to her mouth, and I _almost_ start teetering forward on my toes… She's already looking back at Sam and Mercedes, who are continuing to do their lovey-dovey goo-goo babble… Seriously, it would be so easy to just kiss her right now…

But then, of course, here comes the 'boyfriend' part of the problem. _The _problem, I think. The variable that makes the outcome of our situation equal 'ain't ever gonna happen,' no matter which way I plug the other parts in.

"Hey, guys!" Finn chirps, sliding in between me and Rachel and slinking his arm around her waist. "And there's the beautiful girl I've been looking for." He lays his mouth on top of hers and smooches, long and hard. I can't look away; it's as if my eyes are glued to their smushed faces. My heart sinks like a stone, down behind my navel.

I can't tell if Rachel is kissing him back, because Finn's lips are smothering on top of hers, but she _is _at least squirming around in his grip. Finally, after hours, days, freaking _weeks _of being all Neanderthal, 'I am your Man; you are my Woman' and possessively macking on her like that, he lets her go.

As they detach, their lips make this loud, wet popping sound, and I think I'm going to be sick… Especially when seeing Finn's eyes shine with such oblivious pride and happiness. _Douchebag_.

I mentally will Rachel to wipe her mouth off with the back of her hand and then yell at Finn for being so inappropriate. Instead, she's just silent as she stares down at her feet, her face reddening.

I notice Puck staring at me, his eyebrows scrunched and his mouth frowning in concentration. I shoot him an annoyed '_what?_' look, my own brow shooting skyward. I suddenly feel self-conscious. Puck just shakes his head and looks away, though I swear the wheels in that Mohawk'd head of his are spinning too fast for their own good.

"So, Sam, Mercedes," Finn nods toward them, keeping one arm looped around Rachel's waist. My peripheral vision zooms in on the way his hand is squeezing at her hip, his large fingers lightly moving up and down, bunching the fabric of her red miniskirt. I feel my own fingers curling into fists, and I have to fight to keep my breathing even. "Congrats on the whole couple thing! That's, like, _awesome_," he says.

Why the hell is he so merry? Jeez, from the shit-eating grin he wears, you'd think he just got back from a rendezvous in the janitor's closet and got laid.

"Yeah, we think so, too, man," Sam chuckles. "Thanks."

"I'm just glad I'm not riding in the same limo as you guys," Puck jokes. "San and Britt will be bad enough, and that's actually kind of hot; I can't imagine how much you two won't be able to keep your hands off each other."

Everyone in Glee Club is going to the prom, but it was cheaper to split the price of two smaller limos than one giant limo. Puck and me, Rachel and Finn (_blech_), Santana and Brittany are in one; the rest – Artie and his date, Sam and Mercedes, and Kurt and Blaine – will be in the other. Tina and Mike are apparently taking Mike's car, because they plan to get to prom later so they can eat dinner in private at a restaurant first rather than at the prom like everybody else.

"And I can't even imagine what it will be like when we hit the hotel," Puck continues. "With all of the pairings in our group… _Jeez_, I think almost literally every person in Glee is now matched up with someone else in Glee… It's going to be like cats in heat during mating season or whatever."

Yeah, that's the main cool thing about this year's prom; rather than being held in the school's gymnasium like it usually is, this time, it will be held in the ballroom of a hotel. Which means that we Glee Clubbers made sure to book the biggest suite, way in advance, so we could all hang out afterward.

The part I'm most excited about? Mr. Berry^Squared surprised Rachel and I last night by announcing they'd booked us our own hotel room to stay in together, so we wouldn't have to sleep in sleeping bags in the suite, as we'd planned (since its bed and pull-out couch have already been dibbed).

Getting to spend some quality time later in the night, just me and Rach, is what I'm most looking forward to about prom, if I'm being honest. Even if we _just_ end up sleeping, not even talking, in separate double-beds, too exhausted from dancing the night away and staying up late with all our friends – it will still be so worth it. Just to know she's near me with no one else in between for once.

"You joke at our expense now, Puckerman, but just you wait until we actually _get_ to prom and you decide to hook up with the first cute blonde chick you see," Mercedes teases him right back.

"Nah, Q's my date, and she's the only cute blonde chick my heart could ever desire," Puck says, mock-wistfully, ensuring that all eyes are now on me. He's smiling at me so sweetly, but there's something in his eyes – something almost like suspicion, or confirmation, or _something_ that makes me feel like I'm being viewed under a microscope.

I manage to smile back at him and bark a laugh. "Yeah, don't think you can get away with two-timing me on prom night, Puck," I say, wagging a stern finger at him.

Everyone chuckles at that, but Rachel remains quiet; when I look at her, she's staring off into space, chewing at her lower lip. The blush has cooled down from her face, but Finn's hand is still all over her hip.

It's not possible to die from jealousy, right? I mean, the way Finn is able to touch her like that, whenever, however he pleases… I can't just drop dead from the green monster of envy clawing away in me, can I? Or maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing right now; it would mean I wouldn't have to suffer through this torture any longer.

Mr. Schue chooses that moment to walk in and call everyone to order. Well, better late than never, I suppose. Though why he couldn't have shown up _before_ Finn wedged in between Rachel and me… _Ugh_.

I go and take my seat with Santana and Brittany, who wave at me as I join them, and then they wave at Puck and – oh, at just Puck. Because Rachel stayed behind and is sitting on the bottom riser, in a chair next to Finn.

Oh. That's just…_great_.

My stomach warps in on itself as my heart pops like a burst bubble. I slump down in my chair and try hard not to sulk. It helps when I think of all the various items I could lob at Finn's head from how high up I sit. An egg; a basketball; hey, maybe even a nice little poisoned arrow…

_You have _got_ to stop this, Quinn, _I chide myself. _Catty Jealous Beeyotch doesn't look good on anyone_.

Needless to say, Glee doesn't exactly live up to its name for the rest of rehearsal.

Finally, it's time to go.

As I'm getting up to leave, Santana stops me with a hand on my elbow. "Me and Britts are going to go dress shopping today and maybe tomorrow, depending if we find anything, and then we're in for mani-pedis on Friday. You game?"

"You guys still haven't gotten your dresses yet?" Somehow, I'm not surprised. "Talk about waiting until the last minute… I would love to go with you, but I already have a dress, which I was planning on getting today."

Brittany cocks her head to the side. "But isn't it at your old house?"

I nod. "Yeah, but today is also a _Wednesday_. Which means my parents will be at church for the evening. Which means I can get into the house and get my dress." At the skeptical look on Santana's face, I add, "I swiped a copy of the new key the last time we were there, when we got Buttercup, remember?"

Her face brightens in recognition. "Oh, right! Okay, cool. Never mind then. You and Berry wanna join us on Friday though? It will be like old times, getting our nails painted…but Rachel will be there, too. And, you know, it disgusts me how I'm _not_ disgusted at that prospect."

"Oh, stop it, San," Brittany coos, bopping her girlfriend lightly on the nose and then twitching her own at her. "You know you like her."

"Okay, fine, maybe she's kind of not completely a pain in the ass," Santana amends, but with a small, affectionate smile that says every sentimental thing she won't admit out loud.

"I'm sure Rachel will love mani-pedis," I say. "And even if she doesn't, I'm still down."

"Yay!" Brittany claps her hands together and sways back and forth. "Team Awesome, reuniting! I should, like, bake a cake for the occasion."

"Any excuse for dessert is fine by me," Santana giggles, and then leans in and looks at Brittany with such love in her eyes that I decide to leave them to their own sweetness before I get a cavity and their own little '_dessert_' gets out of hand.

When I walk over to Rachel and Finn, he's squeezing both of her hands within his and then pulling away – but not before kissing her on the cheek. "I'll meet you out in the parking lot?" he asks her.

"Yeah," she says, nodding. "Just let me tell Quinn first."

"Tell me what?" I ask, aiming for the question to come out light and cheery, but in reality, I think I sound like a cat that just got its tail stomped on. The smile that carves up my face is so forced that it hurts my cheeks.

"Oh! Quinn!" Rachel spins toward me, luscious brown locks bouncing out around her. I think that's guilt flashing through her big brown eyes, and something else, too. Something I can't pinpoint.

"Hey," Finn gives me a single nod and stuffs his hands in his jean pockets. "How are you?"

I ignore him. "Tell me what, Rachel?" My pulse quickens for some reason. There's a tension in the air between me and her, our eyes locked. Her reluctance to speak feeds into my insecurity. "Tell me _what?_"

"It's no big deal," she says, but her hands are wringing together. "I just, uh, Finn and I are going on a date. Right now, actually. It was his idea. A spontaneous, after-school date." She almost looks apologetic, which is weird, and her words are coming out all rushed and too smoothed over.

"Yeah, you're right!" I tune into my old cheerleader moves: peppy voice, peppy smile, peppy gleam in my eyes, _peppy, peppy, peppy, damn it_. "That _is_ no big deal! You two kids go have fun on your date!"

… '_You two kids_'… Oh my God… Plus, somebody wake me up from this nightmare.

Finn chuckles, and I _hate_ him for how good-natured it is. "We will," he says. _Be more of an asshole, please! It makes it so much easier to hate you_.

"So, what brought this on?" I ask. _Please stop talking, _I tell myself, but I don't listen, because I'm an idiot. _Just shut up and walk away. _"You guys haven't been on a date in over a month. Why the sudden change of heart, Finn?" I tilt my head at him, my smile so high up that it squints my eyes so that he blurs at the edges. _Shutupshutupshutup!_

"That's exactly why," he says. "I miss her."

Rachel smiles at him at that, kind of shy and sweet and beautiful, and I think I'm going to throw up.

"Okay, cool, awesome, have fun!" I wave my hand in an obnoxious arc, feeling like I'm not controlling my own movements. "I'll see ya back at the house, Rach!"

"Yeah, definitely," she's saying, but I'm already hurrying past them, out into the hall. My sorry excuse for a smile collapses as my chin quivers.

This _sucks_. What's bringing on Finn's random change of heart? Why is he suddenly being such a perfect boyfriend to her? And why is Rachel buying into it?

Because I _know_ Finn. Maybe he's not as much of a villain as I wish he would be – because that would make it so much easier – but he's also not an angel either. Far from it.

He's got something up his sleeve, something that's inspired this newfound burst of confidence within him, thinking he can just swoop on in and steal Rachel from me…

_But that's just it, _the rational part of my brain tells me, the part I keep ignoring but can't afford to anymore. _He's _not_ stealing her from you, because she was never yours to begin with. She's her own person, and time and time again, she's chosen and _will choose_ Finn. You're her best friend, and that has to be enough for you._

But what happens when it stops being enough?

What happens when I accept that it's never been enough in the first place?

How much longer can I go on like this, playing the dutiful role of Best Friend, without bursting at the seams?

I hurry down the hall, shaking my head at myself. I guess I'll never learn. I'm building myself back up, putting all the pieces back together again, but there's one giant chunk that's missing. One that will remain empty, right over my heart.

And it has Rachel's name all over it.


	42. Chapter 42

**CHAPTER FORTY-TWO**

My hands shake as I turn the key into the front doorknob of my house.

Well, I can't really call it _my_ house anymore, since I was kicked out of it and deemed unworthy to live here.

Paranoia creeps into my senses, until I actually look over my shoulder and freeze, worrying that any second a giant searchlight from a helicopter will hover over me, and my parents and the police will pop out from the bushes, running at me with torches and handcuffs.

_Stop being an idiot, _I scoff at myself. I take a deep breath, turn back to the door, and jimmy the key into the lock. For a terrible, heart-stopping second, the knob doesn't twist – but then, finally, _wondrously,_ it does, the door popping open with a blissful _screech_ing noise.

I slide inside the darkened house and shut the door behind me. My parents are gone at church, and the lack of any lights on and turned-off TV confirm this, but I still feel nervous that I could get caught any second.

It's weird being back here. I have to stand in the entryway to gather my breath for a few moments, letting it all soak in. Everything looks the same as usual, and yet it feels so different. It takes me a minute to realize it's because _I _am different. I'm not the same Quinn who lived here all her life, or even the same girl who came back for her dog so many weeks ago.

Not wanting to waste any more time, I hurry up the stairs to my bedroom. When I open the door and flick on the light, my breath is stolen at the sight before me. I was expecting everything to be exactly how it was the night I haphazardly packed up and left. The strewn-everywhere clothes, the exploded drawers, the Bible I threw at the wall left laying on the floor – but it's like the opposite of a tornado blew through here. Like a weapon of cleanliness rather than destruction came in and organized everything spic-and-span.

My bed is made, all the corners tucked in, the pillows fluffed. The carpet is so freshly clean that it has vacuum-lines. The knickknacks on my bureau are dust-free; its mirror is spotless. I walk over to the bureau and pull out a drawer; the clothes inside are folded with care, wrinkle-free and ready to go.

I look over at my laundry hamper, stuffed with dirty clothes the day I left, and see that it's now empty. I pull open another drawer and, sure enough, I recognize some T-shirts and shorts from that very hamper, now folded, put away, and smelling like the spring-clean laundry detergent my mom likes to use.

My heart squeezes tighter and tighter as I go through my room, inspecting the orderliness of everything. My stomach starts roiling; my palms bead with sweat.

I just… I don't understand. Why did my mom – and it had to be my mom, because my dad wouldn't lift a finger to clean even under threat of death – go to all this trouble of keeping my room perfectly intact – heck, cleaner than it's ever been – when no one even lives here anymore? It can't be to keep up appearances, because it's not like any guests invited over would be popping into my bedroom.

I enter the bathroom and, sure enough, everything in here is neat as a pin, too, sparkling clean and smelling like lemony-lavender sanitation products.

There's even a fresh, never-before-used roll of toilet paper on the rod next to the toilet.

Did I just step into Bizarro World?

Or maybe I tripped on the stairs coming up here and knocked my head, and this whole thing is a dream? (In which case, I _really_ hope I wake up soon so I can get out of the house before my parents get home.)

I exit the bathroom and, as I step back into my bedroom, my eyes fall on my nightstand. More accurately, they fall onto the _Bible_ sitting on my nightstand. I gulp as my legs pull me over to it. I reach out a careful fingertip and stroke over the fancy, gilt-scripted title across the front.

My heart is in my throat and tears are in my closing eyes as I place the flat of my palm atop the cover of the holy book. I could place so much blame onto these pages. I could place _all_ of my blame onto them. But I don't feel angry or betrayed or anything negative at all as I – for the first time in so, so long – let my mind think about God.

I think about how so many bad things have come into my life, so many punches to roll with and then finally fight through… And how I wouldn't be the person I am today without them. I wouldn't be as close with my friends – heck, I wouldn't even _have_ some of my friends – without all the turmoil. I wouldn't know who loves me for me, and who just loves me for their version of who I should be. And Santana never would have gotten to punch Rick in the face, and – come on – I can't imagine living in a universe where _that_ delicious scene didn't unfold (even if _why _it unfolded was incredibly traumatic).

The person I am today is the person I think I was always meant to be, and the truth is, I never could have gotten here if I hadn't gotten _through_ everything else. And I did get through. Even during the darkest of times, there was always a spark of light.

When I open my eyes and peel my hand from the Book, tears splash down my face. For so many reasons. For _every_ reason.

After I open my closet door and find that everything in there is organized, too, everything in its place, neatly dangling from a hanger, and the remaining shoes stacked along the bottom – that makes the tears come swifter.

I rummage through the hangers until I get to the back and find a garment covered in one of those protective dry-cleaner bags. I check inside and, sure enough, it's my prom dress. The one I got months upon months ago, in a different life entirely, shopping with my mom in a boutique one day. The memory fills me up, fast and warm – the two of us goofing around, having an impromptu fashion show, and happening upon the perfect dress for me. Mom had insisted we buy it, along with shoes and a handbag.

It only takes a few more minutes to find those very shoes and handbag. Then I grab the dress – hanger and all – and drape everything carefully within my arms.

Impossibly, my lips are curved back in a smile. I sniffle away the last of my tears and close the closet door with the heel of my foot.

I pass by my nightstand and, even though my arms are full, I know I have room for one more thing.

I grab my Bible and place it on top of my dress, and the weight it adds is hardly noticeable.

It's far less heavy than I remembered, balancing into the crook of my arm at a perfect angle.

Before I exit my bedroom, I stop and stare at my wall, at one of the Scripture verses painted there.

Jeremiah 29:11 – "For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD. "Plans to prosper you and not to harm you; plans to give you hope and a future."

"Okay, okay," I sigh, smiling and rolling my eyes, at first reluctant but soon filled with affection. I look up at the ceiling and beyond. "I'm 'ye of little faith' and all that; You can totally say 'I told you so.'"

I wait for an answer, but of course, there's just silence.

Except in my soul, where I feel a flutter of warmth, and a feeling of peace.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

When I get back home to the Berries', the house is empty.

I put my things up in my room and then go outside to play with Buttercup. Maybe it's my whole renewed spiritual awakening and whatnot, but the day feels warmer and brighter than before, the sky a beautiful blue and the sun smiling down at us.

By the time I'm worn out with fetch and Frisbee-throwing, I go back inside, hoping to find Rachel lounging on the couch, back from her date with Finn.

She's nowhere to be seen, but Hiram and Leroy are in the kitchen, whipping up some dinner.

I join them and even help out when needed, chopping a carrot here, washing a bowl of grapes there. We start out with small talk, pleasant chit-chat about their day at work and mine at school, but then the talk turns to prom and Leroy and Hiram turn downright giddy.

Especially when I tell them about my dress, now upstairs in my closet.

"You have to go put it on _right now_ and model it for us!" Hiram insists, his hands popping together and cradling under his chin. He stares at me with such excitement that I have to giggle, and then laugh, exuberance spilling through me.

"I don't want to ruin the surprise," I say. "You guys will just have to wait until Saturday to see me in it, just like everyone else." I playfully swat at him with the spatula, which I had been using to flip my famous grilled cheese in the skillet (when Leroy realized he had me at his disposal to help with dinner, you better believe he asked me to make him one).

"Okay, okay," Hiram laughs. "Don't turn the cookery into weapons!"

"Yeah," Leroy's chuckle booms out, and I loved him for it, that rich and happy sound. "Rachel is the only one who's able to do _that_, but not on purpose…"

"She can't help that she's not the best cook," Hiram says, but he's smirking at his husband's joke. "Speaking of the little darling, when will she be back? She left us a voicemail saying she'd be spending dinner with Finn, but didn't say when she'd return…"

Maybe it was just my hopeful imagination, but I think he sounded kind of annoyed when he said Finn's name.

The Berry men look at me expectantly.

"Oh," I say, blushing. "Um…I don't know when she'll be back, actually. I hope it will be soon."

"Same here," says Leroy. "Lord knows I always get nervous when she's out too long with that boy."

"Probably because you're remembering how _you_ were at that age," Hiram quips with a knowing smirk.

"Oh, let's not go there in front of Quinnie-pie," Leroy teases. "Virgin ears and all that."

Okay, great, now my blush is so hot, I bet I could fry another grilled cheese on it. Also, I _so_ do not want to imagine Finn doing to Rachel whatever Leroy and Hiram did to each other back in the day, because if their flirtatious leers are any indication… Oh, jeez. Mind, out of the gutter. _Now_.

We finish making dinner, and then of course _eat_ the dinner, but by the time we're done – _and_ after the dishes are washed, dried, and put away – there's still no sign of Rachel.

It's when I'm leaving the kitchen, headed for the stairs, that the front door opens and in she pops.

Rachel shuts the door behind her and leans against it for a minute, oblivious to me standing just a few yards away. Her head is tilted all the way back, against the door, staring up at the ceiling. Her shoulders sag, as if under a heavy weight, and she releases a long, weary breath that makes her bangs flutter.

"Tough night?" I finally ask, feeling like a creeper standing here and waiting for her to notice me.

She jumps about a foot in the air, whacking the back of her head against the doorframe, and then utters an incredibly rare cuss word from those prim-and-proper lips. "Quinn!" Her hand flies over her heart, and she tries to flash me a teasing smile, but it wobbles around too nervously to be convincing. "You scared me!"

"Yeah, I kind of got that from your reaction," I smile back, wondering why there's such a weird atmosphere between us. "Sorry."

She peels her hand from her chest and bats it through the air. "No problem."

"So, do you want to talk about your hot date?" I ask, hoping I don't sound too bitter.

"Actually, I'm really tired," she says, starting to walk toward the kitchen. "I'm going to tell my dads hi, go take a shower, and then go to bed. But, uh, maybe we can talk tomorrow?"

"Okay," I say, disappointment rushing in. It's not like I wanted to hear the gory details about her evening with Finn, but I _was_ hoping for some time with her to myself. "Um, Brittany and Santana invited us to get mani-pedis with them on Friday after Glee. Sound good?"

She stops mid-step and turns to me. This time, her smile is genuine. "Yeah; sounds lovely."

"Okay, great, I'll tell 'em you said so."

We just stand there for a few awkward, heavy moments, staring at each other – me, nodding way more times than necessary, and her, no longer smiling but rather nibbling at her mouth.

"Okay," she finally says.

"Okay," I say back, feeling stupid.

"Well, goodnight." She starts to walk off again.

"Yeah, you too," I say, waving at her even though her back is to me now.

I drag myself up the stairs and to the hall bathroom, thinking that a shower and then going to sleep is exactly what I need right now. I just hope that by the time I wake up tomorrow, whatever strange tension started hovering around me and Rach today will be long gone.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

My hopes for a good night's sleep being all I needed to remedy the awkwardness I'd started noticing?

No such luck.

In fact, if anything, the tension seemed to grow during the night hours, and then throughout the morning and school day, until it was so thick that, finally, I had to confront her about it.

I corner her at her locker before lunch.

"Hey," I tap her on the shoulder and wait until she turns around. "Are you, like, mad at me or something?"

"What?" Her brow scrunches together, but she's staring somewhere over my shoulder. "Why would I be mad at you?"

"I dunno…" I feel like a little kid, rocking on my heels, chewing on my lip. I twirl a lock of hair around my finger. "I can't explain it. It's just like… Things have felt kind of heavy between us since yesterday."

"Oh…" She turns back to her locker, and I get the niggling feeling that she's giving me the cold shoulder. "No. I'm not mad at you."

"Would you at least look at me, Rach?" I resist the urge to stomp my foot. "…Please."

She closes her locker door, perhaps with more gusto than needed, and slowly but surely, obliges. When her eyes meet mine, I see that hers flicker with something guarded, something I can't decipher. But her mouth is twitching with a sad little frown. She heaves a deep sigh. "You're right, Quinn. I've been acting weird, I know. And I'm sorry. I just…have a lot on my mind right now."

"Well, you know I'm here if you want to talk about it."

Her face softens into a sweet smile as she reaches out a hand, her fingertips running across my shoulder. I can feel their warmth and perfect pressure even through my sleeve. "I know," she says. "Later, okay? We'll talk about it tonight."

"Yeah," I smile back. "That sounds great."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

'Later' comes even, well, _later_ than I expected.

I thought it would happen right after school, but Rachel insisted we should do our homework first. But by the time we were done studying, dinner was ready. And then after dinner, _of course_ she just _had_ to shower first.

By the time I had put on a comfy, navy blue shirt, a pair of plaid pajama pants, and have parted my freshly-showered hair to the side, Rachel is _finally_ ready to talk.

I pad into her room in my ladybug-print socks and close the door behind me. She sits on the edge of her bed, wearing a matching pajama set, white with multi-colored polka dots all over it. Her hair is styled into two (adorable) braids.

I sit down next to her. "Hi."

She smiles at me, soft and shy, dimples red and rosy. "Hi."

"So…" I try for as much casualness as my burning curiosity will allow. "What's going on?"

"Okay…" She takes a deep breath and presses her hands down through the air, as if physically shoving aside her nerves. "Something happened, between me and Finn. Something that I really want your advice on, but I'm afraid to ask."

"Why would you be afraid to ask?" My eyebrows bunch together.

"Because I know how you feel about me and him."

My heart picks up speed. "What do you mean?"

"For whatever reason, you seem to despise that we're together." She chews at her lower lip.

"I don't _despise_ you guys being together," I say. More like 'abhor,' 'detest,' '_loathe_,' but yeah, let's not get into that right now. "He just kind of annoys me, to be honest, and you already know I think you could do so much better."

Rachel sighs and laces her fingers together in her lap. "I know you feel that way. And to be honest, _I_ was starting to feel that way… Until…"

Any hope I had for her telling me she planned on breaking up with him comes crashing down with that one damned word. "Until what?" I prompt, thinking that she looks as nervous as I feel.

"Yesterday, he took me out on a date, like a _real _date. The first one we've had in months, actually. We went bowling, then caught a movie, and ended the night at Breadsticks. It was fun. Like old times." She speaks carefully, staring at me out of guarded eyes, but there's a small smile playing at her lips as she reminisces, and it makes me want to puke.

I don't say anything – my throat is so tight and dry that I _can't_ say anything – so she continues. "The truth is, Finn and I haven't really been…_connecting_ for quite some time now. But we had a really nice, deep discussion over dinner about it. And he told me something, an idea he has that will help remind us why we fell in love with each other in the first place."

"If you two need to remind yourselves that you're in love, then maybe you _aren't_ anymore," I point out, but she just shakes her head, her braids flopping from side-to-side.

"I said that, too, but… It's really to be expected that Finn and I aren't as close as we used to be, you know? I mean, I have been spending all of my time with _you_. Not," she quickly adds at what I'm sure is the wounded expression on my face, "that that is something I regret! You're my best friend" her eyes fall to her lap at that "and of course I know you were going through a lot."

"Okay..." Discomfort nags at me, and I suddenly just want this conversation to be over. "So, what was Finn's great idea?"

"Well, he rented a room at the hotel for us," she says, and then trails off, as if I should fill in the gap.

And I do, with such abrupt realization that my heart slams against my chest, my stomach roils, and I can _feel_ the blood drain from my face. "You _can't_." It comes out too fast, too hot and too accusing. My eyes widen and glow with vulnerability, the look that only Rachel can elicit.

"Quinn, please," Rachel's words rush out, too, just as desperate. "Let me explain before you start – "

My mouth doesn't let her; running on autopilot, it spits the next question out on its own. "Y-you're going to…to _sleep_ with him?"

"Look," she holds up a hand, her eyes pleading me to calm down and listen, but that's kind of hard to do when blood is roaring in my ears, and my heart is thundering in every pulse point. "Finn and I have been together for over a year, okay? And, and I've loved him for even longer than that, during all those years I spent chasing him. He's my, my _dream guy_. I can't just let my relationship with him fall apart."

I take a deep, shuddering breath and force myself to pull it together. "Rachel, I'm not saying that sex has to be this big deal, not even the first time you do it. But I _know_ you, and I know that for you, sex _is_ a big deal. Are you sure you're ready for this? Are you sure you _want_ this?"

Rachel folds her arms across her chest and won't meet my eyes. "What other choice do I have?"

My voice jumps, shrill and embarrassing. "Are you kidding me?!" I shoot off the bed, standing with my hands on my hips. I clear my throat to bring my tone back to a semblance of normalcy. "What happened to the confident, superstar Rachel Berry who knows that she's special and destined for greatness because she's _her_, not because she's with some stupid guy?"

"Finn isn't stupid," she mumbles, but it lacks passion.

"No, he's just a _jerk_ for pressuring you into having sex with him just because _both_ of you are too damn insecure!" I know I'm ranting, but I can't stop. Maybe I don't _want_ to stop. "He's insecure about _everything_, and you're insecure about your relationship with him because he makes you feel like you're not enough."

"Stop it!" Rachel jumps to her feet and comes alive with emotion. Fury, accusation, sadness, too many flashing through to catch each one – they radiate across her face, her tone, all over her body. "You don't know anything about my relationship with Finn!"

"I'm your _best_ _friend_, Rachel." I throw my arms up and roll my eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. My heart is pounding so hard and fast that I feel like I'm going to be sick. "He's a moron, he hangs all over you, and you… You just don't get it! I dated him, remember? I know what he's like. You deserve so much better, okay?" I stare back down at her and regret it when I see how she's looking at me, scared but hopeful at the same time.

There's this brightness to her expression, blazing in her eyes, but when she speaks, she's quiet, maybe even…vulnerable. "Deserve better like…how?"

The question hangs in the air, and her eyes squeeze the breath from my lungs, and I want to say '_like me_.' But I can't. The words get stuck in my throat.

"I just don't get why you're doing this," I finally say, my throat raspy around the thing I _really_ want to say, but can't. "Why now? Why sleep with him?"

My calm, defeated response seems to light Rachel's fire; she looks positively _livid_ now, but hurt, too, as if I just insulted her or slapped her across the face. "What do you even care?" she snaps. "It's none of your business. Forget I even asked you. I knew you would just freak out like a total prude. Finn even said you wouldn't understand, but of course I didn't listen to him."

Okay, now _I'm_ back to being furious, heat rushing to my face. "_Excuse me?_ Do you think I _care_ what Finn said? It's so obvious he has you brainwashed." My face contorts with rage and disgust.

"It's not _brainwashing_, Quinn!" She spits the word back, dripping with venom. "I am in _love_ with him!"

There's something about how adamant she is, _overly_ so, with panic flashing all over her face. I just shake my head, pitying, ignoring the thousand of knots tying a village inside my stomach. "Who are you trying to convince? Me, or yourself?"

"Oh, get over yourself! You always act like you know everything, and I'm _sick_ of it."

"Well, I'm sick of watching you throw your life away for some guy! You know, for such a smart girl, Rachel, you really can be an idiot."

Her eyes brim with tears, fueled mostly by anger, but there's sadness flickering in them, too. "I know what this is really about. You're just jealous!"

"_Jealous?_" I scoff, even if my head is turning dizzy and I fear I might faint. Cold fear claws at me.

"Yeah, you're jealous because I have someone who loves me, who _fights_ for me," her voice breaks on the word, but she presses on, "someone who wants to _be _with me, and, _and you don't!_"

I stumble backward as if she physically shoved me. The irony of those words coming out of her mouth… I feel like she just punched her fist into my chest, ripped out my heart, and stomped all over it.

My pain must be showing all over my face, because Rachel immediately turns remorseful, a hand flying up to her lips as if shocked at what just passed through. "_Quinn_." It's a plea, and her tear-filled eyes sparkle with it. "I-I didn't mean that. I swear – "

"You know what?" I hold up my hand and glare at her, so hard that I feel like my face might collapse. Squinting my eyes helps to hold back the barrage of tears. I let a coldness harden over me, protecting me. "Forget it. I don't even care anymore. Go fuck Finn. You two deserve each other."

Rachel's tears splash down her face, her lower lip trembling violently. I turn around and walk out the door, my shaking hands closing it softly, so bizarrely calm. I go to my room, shut that door, too, and then collapse on my bed.

I spend a long time just laying there, flat on my stomach, tears pooling out my eyes and dampening the comforter below. My nose starts running at one point, but I just stay there, crying silently, wondering how things could turn so screwed up between me and Rachel in so short a time.

Or maybe it's always been screwed up, and tonight, it finally showed.


	43. Chapter 43

Wow, the response was so amazing from you guys that I would feel bad making you wait any longer! Thank you all sooooo, so much. xD *Giant hugs* Reading your predictions makes me happy; some of you are spot-on, while others have great ideas, but they don't correlate with what I have planned. But either way, you'll just have to keep reading to find out what happens. :) By the way, I'm hard at work on the next chapter right now - I've seriously been writing it AAALLL day - so maybe if you play your cards right, I can post it sometime tomorrow. ;)

Also, which would you prefer: one really long chapter, or two shorter (but still pretty long) chapters? The next one is kind of a behemoth, lol.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER FORTY-THREE<strong>

I awake the next morning not to my alarm clock, but to a gentle hand shaking my shoulder.

My eyes flutter open and then immediately smash back closed when I see who's sitting next to me on the bed, a steaming mug in her other hand.

"What do _you_ want?" I grumble, burying my face into my pillow.

"I come bearing gifts," she says, prying me out into the open.

Reluctantly, I drag myself into a sitting position and wipe the sleep from my eyes. I'm sure my hair looks _lovely _right now, all mussed up and tangled. Rachel's staring at me, wearing a tentative smile, but I think that's affection glimmering in her eyes.

"Here." She holds out the cup, which smells heavenly, like freshly-ground coffee made of hazelnut and cinnamon. "Careful, it's really hot."

_Yeah, the steam kind of tipped me off to that fact, thanks,_ I think scathingly, but decide not to say it. Instead, I let her transfer the handle from her grasp to mine; I take great care not to let our fingers brush.

"Is it poisoned?" I asked, staring down at the dark-brown liquid.

She sighs. "So, you're still mad at me, huh?"

"Depends." I slice my pointed stare up at her. "Were you still a total bitch last night?"

Rachel presses her lips together and rolls them inward for a second. Her shoulders slump, and eyes look heavy at the edges, though they burn with remorse.

"I am _so_ sorry, Quinn. Honestly, I don't know what came over me. I didn't mean any of the horrible things I said. I am _so_ ashamed, and I just…" Her nostrils flare and eyes start to shine, welling with tears. "I wouldn't blame you if you never wanted to talk to me again." She mumbles that last part, more to herself, chin trembling as she stares down at her hand and twists the ruby ring she wears 'round and 'round her finger.

For a few seconds, I just look at her, at how small she seems when her shoulders aren't held back with her usual primness. She really is such a tiny thing, especially without her larger-than-life smile lighting up the world around her.

Her hair waves all down her back, thanks to the braids she slept in, and the ruffled, sleeveless black blouse she wears shows off her sculpted arms. Its dipping neckline displays her gold 'R' necklace, and I flashback to when she suggested that I should get a 'Q' one of my own to go with hers.

_Damn it._ No matter how much I _want_ to stay mad at her, maybe forever, I just…can't. She's my kryptonite. And even though she said some terrible things last night, I know I could've handled the situation better, too. I think I'm madder at the situation itself, and the stupid universe for making everything seem so impossible.

It's far too complicated to think about this early in the morning, especially without some caffeine in my system, so I take a careful sip. _Delicious_.

I know I should tell her it's okay, that I forgive her, but instead the words that come out are: "_Mmm. _Can we get into fights more often? This is the best cup of coffee I've ever had."

Rachel's face splits into a watery grin at that. "Thanks."

"Thank _you_," I say, feeling a smile twitch up my mouth, small but sincere. "Seriously, this is really nice of you." I take a deep breath and push aside my pride. "I'm sorry about last night, too. I _was_ too harsh and judgmental. You're right; it's none of my business."

"No, _I'm_ sorry," Rachel insists. "You were just being honest, albeit brutally so. I didn't even mean what I said, you know. I said so many awful things I'm not proud of, it's hard to keep track, but that last part, when I said you were jealous of me?" She winces. "I _really_ regret that, and I hope you know I was just being spiteful."

"It's okay," I say, even if my heart aches at the memory.

Adamant, Rachel shakes her head. "No, it's really not, _at all_. You have a lot of people who love you, Quinn…" She reaches out a hand, and I think she's going to grab mine, but at the last second she reverses direction and brings it up to her face, wiping away the first tear just as it starts to fall. "Like me." Her hand is shaking, just a little bit, as she brings it down to her lap. "Especially me."

I don't know what to say to that, where to even begin, so I take another swig of coffee to keep my mouth busy. The heat soothes down my throat, sore from so much crying last night. "You know," I say in a sly tone, "In a way, we should be celebrating."

"And why's that?" She cocks her head to the side, lips dancing in a smile that is somehow both amused and sad at the same time.

"Well, we had our first real fight," I say with a dainty shrug. "The way I see it, you're not official best friends until you scream at each other and one accuses the other of being jealous. It's a _damn_ right, really."

She laughs at that, but it's weak, and her eyes are wet again. "Okay then." She takes a shaky breath. "I'll take it. Our first real fight, which means we can only come out stronger from it."

"Exactly," I nod.

She pulls her lower lip into her mouth and starts chewing on it, renewed sorrow filling her eyes, the moment of levity gone. "I really am sorry, Quinn. I feel so bad, and I never, _ever_ want to hurt you, or to fight with you like that again."

My heart breaks for her, for us. I set the coffee onto the nightstand and hold out my arms. "C'mere."

She obeys, falling half on top of me, hugging and sniffling. I hug her back, just as tightly, cherishing her warmth and the perfect size of her body, snuggled against mine. "I'm really sorry, too, and I forgive you. And you're right; we definitely should never fight again."

"Agreed," she nods against my shoulder, her chin jabbing at me. "And I forgive you, too, of course. But as for when I can forgive _myself_…" She sighs, ample with self-loathing.

"Oh, come on," I chide gently, giving her a final squeeze before pushing her away, because, as great as she feels, holding her against me is kind of awkward when I'm not wearing a bra. "You're a diva by nature; passionate arguments are in your blood. I just got caught in the crossfire of one, by my own doing, really. Now let's push it aside and focus on having a great day. We have mani-pedis after school with Brittany and Santana, and then we have _the prom_ tomorrow, _oooohh_, _faannccyyy!_" I try to cheer her up by putting on an exaggeratedly excited demeanor, and it works; she erupts into giggles.

"Okay," she says, sliding off the bed. "Enjoy your coffee. Join me downstairs for breakfast; I'm making pancakes!"

"Sounds great," I call after her as she exits the room. But my smile falls off when I think about the one thing we didn't talk about, the one question that hung in the air from the moment my eyes blinked open and saw her.

Is she going to sleep with Finn?

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

I wear my fedora to school today, the one I was too embarrassed to keep on last time, and even receive some compliments.

Of course, it made Kurt and Blaine bust out in a duo of "New York, New York" by Frank Sinatra, right in the middle of the hallway. I swear Blaine's addiction for breaking out into random song is rubbing off on his boyfriend; I wonder if there's a support group for that.

Rachel acts normal enough during first period, quieter than usual, but I can tell that she's excited about hanging out with me, Santana, and Brittany after school. There are several times when I have to repeat myself when I talk to her, because she'll slip away into her own world. It's at these moments that I can tell something is really bothering her, a weight too heavy to bear upon her shoulders, but I can't bring myself to ask what's wrong.

There's no longer a weird tension between us, but we're still on kind of shaky ground because of our fight last night, both being _too_ polite to each other, no playful teasing, and, I bitterly notice, no touching at all. I'm so used to her being affectionate, grabbing my hand, giving me hugs, even just standing close enough that the back of our arms brush. But now it's like I'm contagious and she's afraid of catching my germs, because whenever I get near her, she "subtly" scoots out of reach.

As it's first period, ballots are passed out to vote for our preferred Prom Queen and Prom King. I notice with smirking satisfaction that the 'King' column now only has two names instead of the original three: Sam Evans and Finn Hudson. Of course, the Queens are myself, Santana, and Nancy. It's no surprise that I check the box next to Sam's name, and as promised, Nancy's for Queen.

I oh-so-discreetly look over at Rachel's ballot and see that she's voted for me and Finn. Well, at least I agree with _one _of those choices.

The rest of the day seems to drag by slowly, as Fridays tend to do, when the weekend is so close, yet so far away. The fact that there's the prom to look forward to on this particular one makes classes seem to take even longer than should be possible.

Rachel doesn't show up at lunch, and when I ask her about it afterward at her locker, she claims she had to spend it in the library, studying for a big test, but she won't meet my eyes.

But the weirdest part is when she ditches _Glee rehearsal._ She's the co-captain (really, _the_ captain since Finn is about as useful as a bag of dirt), which she takes great pride and joy in, and she has never, _ever_ missed practice before (except for that one time she skipped it for me). I remember a few years ago when she had laryngitis and _still_ showed up, not allowing herself to speak or sing, but holding up sheets of paper to communicate with the group, furiously calling out who needed to sing louder and who needed to put more spunk in their dance movements, all with a mad scribble of her Sharpie.

Kurt never arrives, either, and halfway through, Blaine looks at his phone and then grabs his bag and makes a dash for the door, explaining over his shoulder to Mr. Schue, "I'm sorry, something important came up; I have to go," and then leaving without waiting for a response.

But of course, who just _had_ to be there, but Finn? When I see him, it takes everything in me not to march over and slap that infuriating half-smirk off his face. I can't help but to flashback to Wednesday, when he was so obnoxiously chipper, and I had compared it in my mind to him finally get laid. But now that I know he was acting that way not because he had just _gotten_ laid, but because he thought he _would_ be laid, knowing that he was going to take Rachel on a "romantic date" and then proposition her for sex… Let's just say, it's a challenge not to jump up during Mercedes and Sam's cutesy duet and throw my chair at the back of Finn's head.

When the club ends for the day and everyone is filing out, Santana says to me and Brittany as we gather our things, "Okay, Rachel didn't show up to Glee, which is definitely one of the signs of the apocalypse."

"I'm really worried about her," Brittany says, blue eyes wide. "What if she got kidnapped by Vocal Adrenaline?! There's no other explanation!"

"I'm sure she's fine," I say, even though worry coils thick in my stomach.

As if on cue, my phone buzzes; it's a text from Rachel: **I'll meet you at the nail salon. What's the address?**

"That was Rachel," I say, frowning at the message before repeating it to Britt and San. I hand the phone over to Santana so she can type in the address, and then take it back, adding, **Why weren't you in Glee?**

THE Rachel Berry*: **Stomachache.**

I figure that's all the response I'm going to get from her, so I stash my phone back in my bag and follow Santana and Brittany out the door.

Ten minutes later, we're walking into the salon, and there stands Rachel, over by the spinning rack that houses a rainbow of various nail polish.

"She's alive!" Santana gasps dramatically as we approach her.

Rachel looks over at us and smiles, genuine, but her eyes are red-rimmed. Has she been crying? I frown just thinking about it. My stomach keeps doing these nervous little clenches; I'm afraid to talk to her, not wanting to be shut down, but I'm desperate to know what's wrong.

"Hello, ladies," she says. "I'm trying to decide what kind of color I should get."

"Well, what color is your prom dress?" Brittany asks.

"A pale gold," Rachel says, picking up a deep red polish and holding it up to the light, squinting her eyes as she inspects it.

I think Santana can also tell Rachel's been crying, because she smiles kindly and nods. "_Ooh_, a dark red with gold? That will look _super-hot_, Rachel."

Rachel whips her neck toward Santana so fast that I'm surprised it doesn't crack. "Really?"

"Hells yeah! Red's kind of _my_ signature color, but you should totally go for it. Be daring for once!" She speaks to all of us next, her dark-brown eyes emphatic. "I swear, so help me God if any of you pick a nude shade or just clear polish, I _will_ kill you."

"I was going to get a French-manicure," I say. "Will that get me murdered?"

"Nah, maybe just a slap on the wrist," Santana says. "I've seen your dress, and admittedly, that will look really pretty with it."

Brittany, who has been busy perusing the polishes as if it's a life or death choice, looks over at us, a perky grin spreading across her freckled face. "Ooh-la-la, a French-manicure! Do you have to go to _Paris_ for that?" She pronounces it 'pare-ee' in an exaggeratedly fancy French accent.

We all laugh; my eyes connect with Rachel in the middle of a giggle, and we share a smile. She takes a step closer to me and says, "I haven't seen your dress yet, Quinn, but I think that sounds great," and from the friendliness of her tone, I know that things are going to be okay between us.

"Thanks," I smile, bubbling with excitement when thinking about prom and how much fun we're all going to have (I _refuse_ to think about _after_ prom now, lest I want to be in a rotten mood). "And I think you should go with that red. What color are your shoes?"

"They're neutral," she says, and I know she feels it, too, that the mood has shifted lighter.

"Oh, yeah, red toes will look great with that," I say, to which San and Britt nod in agreement.

We spend the next hour getting our arms and legs pampered with lotion and massages, our fingernails and toenails buffed and primed and then coated with the style of our choice. I go with French; Rachel, the dark red; Santana, an even darker red, borderline black; and Brittany, getting every nail painted a different shade of neon (some things never change).

It's the most fun I've had in a long time. For the most part, we're quiet, relaxing to the calming mood music playing and enjoying the ambiance. But we talk, too, about fun, girlie stuff, mostly about the prom, and Santana tells Rachel her Egyptian drag queen joke, which earns a hearty laugh from all.

After paying for our respective treatments, we walk outside, arm-in-arm-in-arm-in-arm; I feel on top of the world.

The sky is a bit too dark for late afternoon, bearing heavy-looking clouds tinged with gray. The temperature has dropped, much cooler, and there's that feeling of utter stillness, occasionally broken by the rustle of wind through the trees.

"Do you think it's going to rain?" Brittany asks.

"The weatherman predicted it's supposed to storm tomorrow night, but what do they know?" Santana scoffs. "The term 'reliable weatherman' is as much of an oxymoron as 'chaste Puck.'"

Snickers pepper across our group, and I roll my eyes. "Bless that boy."

We all parked together, but have to split up to get into our cars. "'Bye; I had fun," I say, hugging first Brittany and then Santana.

"You're coming over to my house tomorrow to do hair and makeup, right?" asks Brittany.

"Yeah, definitely!"

"You in, Rach?" Britt asks her.

Rachel shakes her head. "Sorry, as lovely as that sounds, I'll have to pass. My dads booked me an appointment at a salon for their special prom package months ago."

"Aw, too bad," Santana gives a little smile. "We're meeting at your house, though, right? Isn't that where the limo's picking us up?"

"Yep," Rachel blushes at Santana's attention, and how it's warmer toward her than ever before. "Be there at six if you want to take pictures, or six-thirty if you just want the limo."

"Six it is!" Brittany says, radiating exuberance, and then crushes Rachel's tiny frame to her tall one. "'Bye, my favorite mini-person!" She pecks a quick, smack of a kiss to Rachel's cheek. "You looked sad earlier, but I hope you're happy now. You have really sexy nails, so you have no reason not to smile!"

When Rachel's out of her embrace, I see that she's blushing even brighter, and her smile gleams giddy.

Santana steps in and holds out her arms. "Okay, say the thing, and let's get it over with."

"What thing?" Rachel appears puzzled.

"That hug announcement thing that you do," Santana rolls her eyes but in a good-natured way. "It's, like, your catchphrase or whatever."

"Oh!" Rachel's eyes brighten, and she laughs. "Right! Okay." She stretches out her own arms. "I'm going to hug you now."

"There you go," Santana chuckles, accepting the embrace.

I giggle, too, thinking that this is the cutest scene I've ever witnessed in my life.

"Okay, I'll see ya tomorrow around three, Q, and I'll see you at six, Rach," Brittany says as she opens her car's front door.

"See ya!" Rachel and I chorus with a wave. I turn to my car, about to unlock it, when Rachel stops me with a little tug on my shirt's hemline.

"Yes?" I swivel toward her with an expectant eyebrow but am glad that she's initiating conversation.

She opens her mouth to say something but then closes her lips in a tight line.

I sigh; are we back to awkwardness again? Already? The reprieve has ended too soon.

"So, how's your stomachache?" I ask.

"What?" She looks confused, but then understanding dawns as she nods her head. "Oh, yeah. It's better now."

"Good."

"Thanks for inviting me today," she says with a tender smile. "It was…well, kind of everything I've ever dreamed of. I've finally infiltrated the Unholy Trinity."

I smile back. "They've liked you longer than just today, you know. It's just not easy for Santana to show it sometimes."

"I know," she says. "Still, I can't imagine what Freshman Rachel would say if I could go back in time and tell her that, in just a few years, she'd be getting her nails done with the three most popular girls in school."

"Yeah, and that all three of those girls would turn out to be gay," I add, and we chuckle at that.

San and Britt have already left by now. There's nobody else around, and the atmosphere – heavy with a building storm and the emptiness of the parking lot – feels strangely intimate.

"Prom's going to be fun tomorrow," Rachel says. "Don't you think?"

"Yeah," I open my door. "It's going to be a blast." A soft, warm breeze caresses my face.

"I'll see you back at the house then," Rachel gives a little wave as she starts walking to her car.

"Yeah; see you soon," I call out, sliding into my car.

When I turn on the radio, crazy enough, "Feeling Good" by Michael Bublé drifts from the speakers.

I decide to take it as a good omen, but at the same time, far off in the distance, thunder rumbles.


	44. Chapter 44

As always, thanks for everything! :) Everyone who voted said they would rather have one massive chapter than two smaller ones. So, as promised, here's the next chapter! I spent a lot of time on it, so I really hope you like it even more than I usually hope you do, haha. :D Remember, reviews make me happy and inspired, and the happier and more inspired I am, the more I can write and update even more chapters for you guys. (Ain't too proud to beg)

Please listen to** "More Than This" by One Direction**. It will get you in the mood of how Quinn is feeling going into this chapter.

Also, the songs** "Speechless" by The Veronicas** and** Ingrid Michaelson's cover of "Can't Help Falling in Love"** pop up in equally important ways. That's not a spoiler; I just want you to know so you can either listen to them before you read or have them ready to listen to as you read their scenes. You don't have to, but I highly recommend it, and it would make me happy. :) (All songs mentioned can be found on YouTube.)

And, without further ado, enjoy! :D

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR<strong>

Brittany's mom is a wizard with hair.

Seriously; she braided the top of my head on both sides, then connected the braids together in the back into a coiled bun. All through my hair, tiny fake flowers in varying degrees of pink – from dark to pale to bright – are placed strategically, looking as if they sprout up from a golden-blonde garden.

That, with my smoky eye make-up, light blush, and pale pink lips, makes me appear exquisite, as a vision I don't recognize; I blink back at myself in the mirror, thinking that I look like someone special and lovely.

And then there's the dress… It's a masterpiece. A work of art in and of itself. I still can't believe I lucked out by finding it, and how it so perfectly fits me in every sense of the word.

It has a sweetheart neckline; the bodice is the palest shade of coral-pink, that baby-blush tint on the inside of seashells, and its front is studded all over with tiny faux-pearls. From the bottom of the bodice downward, the skirt of the dress is comprised of a slippery, sleek material in a slightly darker pink. It stops just at my ankles, revealing my silver shoes with the inch-long high-heel.

Honestly, I have never felt more like a princess in my entire life. I just pray to God my Cinderella fantasy doesn't end the night as a pumpkin.

Maybe it's about time someone rewrote that story.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

"Okay, are you ready?" Rachel calls out from the other side of the door.

It's five-thirty. I arrived at Rachel's from Brittany's house fifteen minutes ago, but Rachel just got back from her day at the salon. She's in her room right now, changing into her dress; neither of us has seen each other at all today. Neither knows what to expect, and the curiosity is killing me.

Standing outside her door, my heart thwacks around in my chest. I swallow against a dried threat. "Oh, I'm ready for you, Miss Berry; the question is, are _you_ ready for _me?_"

Rachel giggles. That musical giggle, the one that will be the end of me. "On the count of three. One…"

My hand curls around the doorknob. "Two…" I say.

"Three!"

I swing open the door and step into her room; our eyes land on each other.

And my breath is completely stolen away. _Whoosh _– knocked right from my lungs, stilling my heart.

I never want to stop looking at her; I never want to have to subject my vision to anything else, for now that I have seen the truest form of beauty in the world, everything else is going to be so much duller and so much bleaker in comparison.

And as embarrassing as this it to admit, I honest-to-God freaking _gulp_ at the sight of her; who actually _gulps_ in real life?

A barrage of butterflies explode in my stomach and shoot up to my heart, signaling it to start beating again – and boy does it ever, picking up in double-time.

Apparently, I'm not the only one who is in a state of shock and awe: Rachel stands frozen in place, openly gaping at me. Her perfect, freshly-plucked brows are raised high above widened eyes; her mouth has fallen open.

After a few silent, charged moments, she gives her head a little shake as if to snap herself out of a trance. "Wow," she says, breathless.

Um, freaking _yeah_, Rachel: 'wow' sums _you_ up perfectly.

Her dark hair is glossier than ever, practically reflective, and parted dramatically; her bangs are swept to the side with the part, making her meticulously straightened hair fall in one long, thick curtain, which she has draped over one shoulder, held together at the base of her neck with a diamond-studded barrette.

Thanks to the perfect amount of mascara, those already naturally long eyelashes of hers are even thicker and curlier and practically a mile-long. Her lips are iced in shimmery nude gloss; her cheeks are a light, rosy tint. She appears luminescent, skin glowing as if lit from within by a soft candlelight.

And then there's the dress.

It's long and slim-fitting, showing off that teeny-tiny waist of hers, the dip of her long back, the curve of her butt. It's this gorgeous pale gold that shimmers ever-so-softly, like…like stardust. Which is so appropriate, since Rachel _is_ a star. And, oh help me Lord, the dress has a narrow V-neck that shows just a peek of cleavage.

Finally, one of us breaks through the electrostatic crackling through the air between us; Rachel says, softly and shyly at first but rising in volume and confidence, "Quinn…wow! You look _so_ beautiful! Even more than usual, if that's even humanly possible." And then she smiles, this lit-up-from-the-inside-out, bashful smile; her irresistible little dimples pop up on her baby-apple cheeks.

Words – what are words? How do you speak? You have to open your mouth, don't you? And I think your tongue may have to move around a little bit. Can one suddenly lose the ability to talk or just plum forget how to do so? Because I'm trying over here, I really am, but it's useless.

"Th-thank you," I finally manage to stutter, heat flaring up my neck, across my face. But, somehow, I manage to snap myself out of my stunned state.

Comfort spreads over me, like water quelling a flame, and I no longer feel like a dumbstruck mute. An excited grin stretches across my face, and my heart begins to resume a normal pace.

"Rachel, you look _fantastic!_" I gush. "Seriously, you're the most drop-dead-gorgeous girl I have ever seen!" _And you'll never know how much I mean it_.

Rachel, too, seems to have shaken off the weirdly intense vibe from just a few moments ago, for she is now beaming and looks at ease. "Puh-leeze." She makes a face and bats a dismissive hand by her side. "You honestly expect me to believe that when you look in the mirror at _yourself_ every day?"

My heart flutters at the compliment; my grin takes over my entire face, practically curling past my forehead. "You're too sweet," I say, giggling. "Now, get your tush over here and give me a hug already!"

Giggling, Rachel takes the few steps over to me; as she walks, I catch a flash of her nude-colored pumps, which do wonders in lengthening those lean-muscled legs of hers. Her heels have her to only be two inches shorter than me instead of the natural four, which makes the dynamic of our hug quite a bit different.

Rather than her chin resting on my shoulder, now it's just below mine. Now she's high enough up that my mouth accidentally grazes her cheek as we hug; a shiver shoots down my spine at the briefest, softest of contact.

We embrace gingerly, careful not to rumple the other's dress or ruin our hairdos – typical girlie worries. But even though it's not our standard grizzly-bear-style hugs, I still miss it as soon as we pull away.

Rachel and I hold each other at arm's length, appraising one another one last time.

"That dress is seriously _killer,_" I say.

"So is yours! You have _pearls_ on them; that takes the cake."

"But _you _look like a human star: The brightest one in the galaxy."

We just stand there for a few pounding heartbeats, hands locked around the other's wrists, grinning like idiots, and giggling like the teenage girls we are.

And if this is how amazing my senior prom is before the night has even truly begun, then I think it's safe to say that I'm about to have one hell of a time.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

From the reactions upon Hiram and Leroy's faces when first I, and then Rachel, descend the staircase to meet them in the living room, you'd think Christmas had come early (hmmm, maybe not the best comparison, considering they're Jewish, but you get what I mean).

They can't stop grinning, so adoringly and proudly, gushing over us and getting teary-eyed, which makes _me and Rachel_ almost get teary-eyed, but managing to control our emotions before we dare smudge our makeup.

They take so many pictures that I think my face is going to be frozen into a super-happy smile forever.

Finally, we get a reprieve when the doorbell rings and, surprisingly, at six o'clock exactly, Puck is the first one to show. I figured he'd be "fashionably late."

"_Daaayyyyuuummmm._" He whistles long and low in approval when he takes in me and Rach. "You girls are lookin' _smokin'_ hot!" He holds a box in his hand, probably my corsage, reminding me that I need to pin his boutonniere.

Leroy lifts his eyebrows. "Do you want to rephrase that, Mr. Puckerman?"

Puck blanches. "Uhhh, uhhh, I mean… You lovely, pure ladies look very sweet and pretty, and I, a gentleman, would never objectify you in any way." Rachel and I erupt into giggles. He turns to Mr. Berry^Squared. "How's that?"

Hiram smirks. "Much better."

"You look so handsome," I gush as Puck walks over to us. He wears a crisp white button-down with a black tuxedo jacket, black dress pants, and shiny black shoes. "I'm loving the tie." It's a shade of pink that matches my dress closely enough.

"Real men wear pink," he boasts with a cheeky grin.

"That they do," Rachel agrees. "And you look very nice indeed, Noah."

"Thanks," he smiles at her, and maybe it's just my imagination, but as they hold each other's eyes, I think something passes between them. Rachel's widen, just a bit, and it makes Puck do this sort-of nod before turning his attention to the box in his hands.

"I got you a gardenia," Puck says to me. "With a, uh..." His gaze darts over to Rachel before landing back on mine. "With a light green ribbon to match your eyes."

A flattered smile spreads up my face at that. "Awww, Puck, thank you! That's so sweet and thoughtful."

"Oh, uh, yeah." His smile is weird, too tight at the corners and not sparking in his eyes. "You know me. Super-thoughtful dude right here."

As Puck slides the band of the corsage onto my wrist, I look over at Rachel - but the moment my eyes go her way, hers zip to the floor, cheeks going pink.

"Who would have thought Puck was such a gentleman?" I try to joke with her. She looks up but not at me, more so at the space between me and Puck, and smiles this strange, heavy smile.

…_Ohhhkayyy._ What the heck is going on?

Before I have any more time to mull over the weirdness, the door opens and Brittany's voice rings out.

"Hey, guys! You all look so cute!" she squeals, making me, Rach, and Puck swivel around to face her. She's a welcome distraction, and the strange vibe in the air dissolves as she bounces over to us.

"You're like Lovely Pink Barbie and Badass Ken," she says to me and Puck. "And you're all shimmery and gold, Rach, like you rolled around on top of a star."

"I think that's the best compliment anyone's ever given me," Rachel says with a delighted laugh. "And you look amazing, too!"

"Thanks, Britt; you look nice," Puck gives her a kiss on the cheek.

"Yeah, you're beautiful," I insist, as if for the first time, even though I spent the whole day getting ready with her and San.

Brittany's dress is made of canary-yellow satin that brings out her tan and hugs every perfect dip and curve of her sculpted body. Her lips are a subtle shade of red; her strappy high-heels, navy. Square-cut diamond earrings sparkle on display, her long blonde hair twisted back into an elegant French braid with a length of lime-green ribbon snaking through it.

It's such a bright, happy look – totally Brittany. Her multi-colored nails make it even more festive.

"Where's Santana?" I ask.

"Right here, and hotter than ever." She stands in the doorway, a hand cocked to her hip, a delicious smirk all over her face.

I beam at her as she saunters over, her hips swinging and posture confident. Oh yeah, she _knows _how beautiful she is, even more so than usual tonight.

Of course, her theme is red. It wouldn't be Santana without the bold color: rosy lips; blushed cheeks; glimmering rubies and shiny red garnets dripping from her neck, her wrists, and dangling at her ears.

Her gown is strapless, showing off her shimmer-dusted shoulders, and has a plunging neckline. The dress is so long that the hem skims across the floor as she struts toward us. The color of the dress is deepest red, like fine wine, an undercurrent of black when the light hits it right. And, finally, her thick raven mane has been styled into loose, delicate curls, bouncing lightly and gleaming brilliantly every time she moves.

"_Whoa_," Puck says when she reaches our foursome. "It's too bad you're not into dudes and I'm not into psychos from Lima Heights, 'cause the thing your body is doing tonight is _criminal_."

"Careful with the leering, buddy, or _I'm_ gonna get criminal," Brittany teases, poking him on the chest.

A warm wave of laughter passes over us; I swell with it, feeling like I could burst from excitement and happiness and affection.

"You all look great," Santana says, smiling that rare smile of hers – no tricks or hidden meaning, just pure, tender warmth. "I would hug you if I weren't afraid I'd rip my dress or something."

We all exchange some more compliments, everyone gushing over everyone. Every time I look over at Rachel, she quickly looks away. I can't keep my eyes off her, so we keep doing this back-and-forth dance, flashing smiles but the other staring off before we can actually make eye-contact.

After we've all talked for a while, I pin Puck's boutonniere on the lapel of his jacket. Hiram makes us pose while I do it, snapping a picture, and then has Puck pretend like he's putting the corsage on my wrist for the first time.

We all break out our cameras and have a photo shoot that takes a good fifteen minutes until there's a knock at the door, and the final person to our limo group arrives.

The one I was least looking forward to, whom I've been pretending for as long as I can that he doesn't exist, wishing he'd get sick and not show up.

"I bet that's Finn," Leroy says. When we all stop what we're doing and stare at him, he raises his eyebrows at Rachel, who looks like a deer frozen in the headlights. "Don't you want to go answer the door for your date, honey?"

"Of course," she says, recovering quickly, an easy smile spreading up her lips as she flounces to the door. My eyes land on her perky ass, on her long legs, on the bare, smooth slab of back displayed – they trail all over her, blatantly checking her out, and I feel a tingling heat growing from a speck to a radiating circle, right behind my navel.

Rachel opens the door and, sure enough, Finn stands on the other side. He seems taller than usual, impossibly large and imposing, the Goliath to my David. I notice with sour disdain that formal wear makes him double as handsome as usual: his thick brown hair sleeked back, but not with too much gel; a classic, black-tie tux that shows off his all-American football-star build; and his boyish half-smile gone, replaced by a full, charming grin when he looks down at Rachel.

"You're so beautiful," he says. His eyes dance with this little thrill, and I just _know_ he's thinking about later tonight, imagining what it would be like to have that shimmery dress of hers on the floor, pooling at her feet in elegant waves of fabric, as his hands roam all over her body and they fall onto a bed and –

_I'm going to be sick_. One hand clutches my thrashing stomach; the other, my too-tight chest. And then there's another hand, pressing into the small of my back, lending me support to lean against it so I won't fall over.

I turn to the source – Santana. Looking at me with pure sympathy flashing in her eyes, and just like that, I know that _she_ knows.

_Thanks,_ I mouth to her, and she nods, moving her hand over to mine and peeling it from my stomach so she can lock our fingers together, tight and warm and flowing with the kind of instant comfort that can only come from a best friend who's like a sister to me.

"Thank you," Rachel is saying to Finn, "You look quite dapper yourself."

He leans in to kiss her, but her hand darts up, landing at his chest and pushing him away. "I, uh, don't want to smear my lip-gloss," she says quickly when affronted confusion shoots across his face.

"Ah, okay." He gives her that stupid half-smile. I can't help but not hate the sight as much now that it's come after being denied a kiss. _Ha!_

Rachel takes his huge hand in her small one and tugs him inside the house. Her gaze falls on my and Santana's hands, gripped together between us, and for some reason, that makes her drop her hold on Finn. She smoothes her palms over the sides of her dress as she leads him into the heart of the living room, her stare now focused intensely on the couch.

"Hello, everyone." Finn waves. "Girls, you look pretty. Puck, you clean up well."

"Thanks, dude," says Puck. "Back at 'cha."

Santana and Brittany chorus their thanks, and Brittany returns the compliment, but I can only squeeze San's hand and give Finn a tight smile and quick nod.

"Okay, now get together by the fireplace, you two," Hiram says, setting up his camera and waving Finn and Rachel to the designated spot.

I don't want to watch Rachel and Finn pose for prom pictures like the inseparable couple they are, so I make idle chitchat with Puck, Britt, and San while we wait for the limo to arrive any minute.

_So much for rewriting the Cinderella fantasy_, I think. In her story, all she lost was a shoe. In mine, I'm losing the love of my life to a bumbling idiot.

Not exactly a fair trade.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Prom: It's the one night of the school year where teenagers dress in their fanciest garments, meet at a fancy location, and dance the night away on their fancy feet. A night filled with drama, intrigue, romance, and a sense of nostalgia already forming. It's one giant step closer to graduation, a landmark occasion, closer to the end of "the good old days" for some people, the end of "shitty high school experience" for others, but the end of an era for all.

So far, my prom experience is fantastic.

The limo ride to the hotel is filled with laughter, everybody drunk on happiness and a liberating sense of _carpe diem_.

There are three benches of seats in here, spreading in an L-shape, each holding up to two people. So, of course, we sit by couple; Brittany and Santana to my right, and Finn and Rachel across from Puck and me, respectively.

We pop open a bottle and pour its contents into stemmed champagne glasses that reek of sophistication, even if the drink it holds is, innocently enough, sparkling cider.

"To a limo filled with the baddest bitches, and a prom night filled with fun memories!" Santana cheers, thrusting her glass so high in the air that it almost sloshes onto her dress.

Chuckles ripple through us as we struggle to repeat the toast at the same time, so eventually, we decide on just chorusing "TO US!", everybody clinking their glasses together in the middle, laughing and whooping it up.

I let myself loose, seizing onto the happiness around me and savoring the crisp apple taste of my drink. I make sure not to dwell on any of the negative thoughts brought on by Finn's presence. He's already taken enough from me; _no way_ am I letting him ruin my prom night, too.

There's just one moment that gets to me, that makes bitter anger flare through my veins; Finn puts his hand on top of Rachel's knee and leans back in his seat, smirking to himself as he sips his cider, as if indulging in his secret thoughts of Rachel accepting his hotel room offer tonight.

My fingers squeeze around my glass so abruptly and tightly that I'm surprised it doesn't shatter in half… But then, just a few seconds after he's so nonchalantly laid claim to her, Rachel crosses her legs, the move knocking his hand clean off her knee. She leans in toward Brittany to hear the funny story she's telling, so maybe it wasn't even a conscious action to get him off her, but nevertheless, it leaves Finn frowning and me smirking into my cider.

Our limo pulls up in front of the hotel a few minutes before seven; dinner is served at seven, and the dance floor will be opened at seven-thirty. The evening ends at nine-thirty, which means we have two and a half hours ahead of us to have the time of our lives.

Puck helps me from the limo and then offers a crooked arm. "After you, my lady." He bows.

"Why thank you, kind sir." I giggle and curtsy, hooking my elbow into his and falling into step toward the looming hotel that radiates a vibe of romance and elegance. An excited bubble expands in my chest as I take it in; this _definitely_ beats the high school's gym, let me tell you.

The air is crisp, cooler than it should be in April. It turns out Santana may want to change her definition of 'oxymoron,' because the term 'reliable weatherman' seems to be coming true tonight. Rather than the sunset that should be blazing across the horizon this evening, the sky is filled with dark, fat clouds that chase each other across its deep-navy expanse.

A pleasant wind stirs around us, playing at the hemline of my dress, billowing the fabric around my ankles. I actually really love rain – the stormier, the better – and when, off in the distance, a low peal of thunder sounds, I find myself charged with the building vibe of nature.

With Santana and Brittany pinkie-in-pinkie in front, and Rachel and Finn right behind us, Puck and I make our way through the throng of dressed-up McKinley students. I exchange compliments, thanks, and pleasantries with some as I pass by, wave at others, and smile at all, even the ones who scowl at me, because I'm too happy to care.

The theme of the prom is 'Hollywood Glamour,' which means there's a red carpet rolled out in the lobby, leading to the entrance of the grand ballroom. Photographers acting like paparazzi are lined up behind the red velvet ropes, flashing boxy cameras with giant light bulbs and calling out random names.

When we enter the ballroom, my breath catches. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't this. This seems _too_ beautiful to be the product of our school's prom committee.

McKinley's color, red, is played up everywhere, but in soft shades, making everything glow in a romantic ambiance. One side of the ballroom is covered in large tables and chairs, where we'll eat dinner; the other, even bigger side is empty space saved for dancing, all gleaming hardwood floors so polished that I can almost see my reflection in them. There's a stage, with a giant, red-and-gold banner hanging above it that reads 'WELCOME TO THE SENIOR PROM!' in fancy script.

Bright flowers are potted all over the room, some even hanging from the ceiling. Twinkling lights drape in the four corners. And right above the middle of the dance floor is a massive, extravagant chandelier that bathes the area underneath it in a warm, golden glow.

"Whoa," Puck murmurs beside me as we make our way to 'Table 18,' the one us Glee Clubbers signed up to eat at together. "This is, like, actually pretty damn awesome."

"Understatement," I murmur back, shaking my head in awe.

Still following right behind Britt and San, we reach our table, where Artie and his date (a sweet girl named Avery), Kurt and Blaine, and Sam and Mercedes are already sitting around one side.

They hop up and practically attack us with hugs and compliments. Finn and Rachel squeeze into the group, and then there is even more affection flung around.

"Oh my _God,_ girl, you look_ amazing!_" Mercedes squeals to me. Her hair has been straightened, and she wears a beautiful, jewel-toned blue dress that matches Sam's tie. They make an adorable couple.

"So do you!" I squeal back. "And you are so cute in that tux, Sam!"

Sam grins from ear-to-ear. "Thanks; Puck, you better keep an eye on your date before some hot girl comes up and steals her away from you." A laugh runs through us at that; I give Mercedes and Sam a hug at the same time, my arms stretching wide but smile stretching wider.

When I pull away from them, they go over to San and Britt to say their hellos, and Rachel slides in front of me, taking their place.

She appears so abruptly that I stumble back a little, my heart jolting in my chest with a jumpstart. She's so insanely gorgeous that it's hard to breathe when I focus on her.

"Come on," she says, and I could kiss her (always) for how giddy and easy-natured she says it, as if none of the weirdness brewing between us this past week ever existed. She grabs my hand and tugs me toward the table. "You're sitting next to me."

I beam at that. "Okay!"

I sit between Puck and Rachel, across from Blaine and Kurt (the former wears a, I kid you not, _diamond-encrusted_ bowtie, and the latter rocks a vintage top hat with a red band around it).

Dinner is grilled chicken, salad, and sweet potatoes, served with water or iced tea. Dessert is a slice of chocolate or vanilla cake.

Everything actually tastes damn near delicious. The conversation is light and easy, people talking across the table, couples leaning in and whispering to each other, sweet snatches only they can hear. Rachel doesn't eat her chicken (obviously) but pushes her salad around on her plate without digging into it.

"You aren't hungry?" I ask her.

"Not really," she replies, looking deep in thought as she watches her silver fork skirt around her plate. She does eat, eventually, just with slow bites, her gaze drifting off several times at nothing.

But besides that, she's, for the most part, not vacant but rather enjoying herself, laughing at jokes and even making some of her own. We discuss how lovely the ballroom has been decorated and how impressed we are with the prom committee for organizing it.

At seven-thirty sharp, all the plates are cleared and Mr. Figgins – wearing a nice suit – steps up to the microphone podium on the stage across the ballroom. He looks down at a stack of note cards in his hands and clears his throat for attention, the sound reverberating across the room.

"Welcome, children, to McKinley High's Senior Prom, 'A Night of Hollywood Glamour!'" he says, to which the crowd goes wild. "I hope you are all enjoying your evening thus far with the decadent morsels served from the hotel's renowned batch of chefs. Hold for applau – _er_…" He grins sheepishly, to which there's more clapping and whistling from my peers.

"The first order of business is to announce the Prom King and Prom Queen," Figgins' voice drones on. "So, if everyone would come to stand in front of the stage, and if the nominees would come stand _on_ the stage – that is, Samuel Evans, Finn Hudson, Quinn Fah-bray, Santana Loh-pez, and Nancy Pettison."

The sound of hundreds of chairs pushing back at the same time scrapes through the room. Rachel squeezes my arm, her eyes bright with excitement; her smile dazzles me. "Good luck!"

"Thanks." I miss her the moment I walk away, making my way through the crowd, up to the flight of steps leaning against the stage.

"Remember, students, that write-in nominations were not tolerated this year," Figgins is saying, "so for those of you who wrote in rallying for the victory of a student named Hugh Jass, well, I am sorry, but Mr. Hugh Jass is not allowed to run."

"Yes!" a guy a few feet away from me cheers to his group of friends, pumping his fist in the air. "He said it!" They all burst into cackles and high-fives, and I can't help but to roll my eyes and giggle as I pass them.

"Just where do you think you're going?" I turn to find Santana slinking up beside me.

"To the stage," I say. "Where do you think?"

"We'll go together," she says, linking our elbows. Then, with the same amount of casualness but a certain hardness under the words, she asks, "So, how long have you been in love with Rachel?"

Surprisingly, the question barely trips me up. I say evenly, staring straight ahead and ignoring the flare of heat to my cheeks, "Pretty much since freshman year."

From the corner of my eye, I see her nod, as if she expected this answer. "And when are you going to tell her?"

We're halfway to the stage by now. "Um, how about _never?_" I scoff, my blush spreading down my neck.

People are beginning to watch us as we pass by, two of the members of their Royal Family. They part out of the way for us, and Santana grins cheekily to keep up appearances, waving to them with the hand not looped through my arm.

"How about I kick your ass if you don't tell her how you feel by the end of the school year?" she says, syrupy-sweet through her giant smile.

I follow suit, grinning and waving, and reply in the same forced cheerful tone, "Oh, please, maybe you can fool others with your 'I'm from Lima Heights' act, but I know the real you. You're about as scary as a paper cut."

"Hey, don't mock those; they hurt like a bitch."

Our brisk footsteps have us almost to the stage's steps, just a yard or two away now. "If you don't promise me that you'll tell Rachel how you feel soon, then so help me God, I will push you down these stairs," she says from the side of her frozen grin as we start up the first step.

"Why do you even care?" My smile is so wide and open that my cheeks are starting to shake.

"Because I'm your best friend and I want you to be happy, and I went through a similar thing with Brittany when she was with Artie, remember?" She drops the act to turn toward me and whisper it all in a big, passionate rush as we ascend up the last step and onto the stage. No one else but Figgins is up here, and below, people are still congregating on the floor, trickling in from every direction, a sea of colorful dresses and elaborate hairdos.

"Yeah, but Brittany actually loves you back, and Rachel is totally taken by _Finn_," I whisper, just as passionate as her vehemence; his name hisses out like a cuss word.

"You don't see the way she looks at you when she thinks no one's watching," Santana says, Barbie-doll smile back in place as we face the crowd and wave at them. Some people call our names, cheer, or wolf-whistle. I catch a few whispering, pointing, and glaring at me, but at least no one boos, which I kind of secretly feared they might.

"Yeah, like how?" I grin from ear-to-ear, my heart pounding in my throat at Santana's words.

"Like how you look at her when _you_ think nobody is watching."

My grin slips as, for a second, I allow myself to wonder. My heart stumbles in my chest.

"Like, back at her house?" Santana continues, now blowing air-kisses at her adoring admirers and then faking giggles as she pretends to catch the ones they throw back.

There are several people chanting for me, too, but I ignore them, my stare riveted on Santana, all my pretenses of prom politic bullshit out the window. "Yes?" I prompt with irritated impatience. "_Back at her house…?_"

"She couldn't keep her eyes off you," Santana finishes, winking at the front line of our peers.

I see it's aimed at Brittany, who pushed herself front-and-center. Brittany grins and winks back, blowing Santana a kiss, who, this time when she catches it, presses it to her heart rather than let it go like the others. When looking at her, Santana's smile turns real, eyes beaming from deep inside.

By this point, Nancy, Sam, and Finn have reached the stairs and are starting to walk up them.

Santana slings an arm around my shoulders in an exaggeratedly chummy manner, pulling me close enough where her breath tickles my ear when she whispers, her words saturated with meaning but her grin scarily still locked into place, "You two look at each other the way Brittany looks at me, and I bet, how I look at Brittany. Now smile, damn it, and act like you're positively _thrilled_ to be up here with _me_, the future prom queen, _or I will fucking push you off this stage._" She reaches down and pats my rump, discreet so no one can see, and then pulls away from me.

I beam at the crowd and throw in some belated waves and winks, but inside my head is a whirling mess, wanting so desperately to believe Santana, but knowing that I can't afford to give into false hopes only to have them dashed and my heart destroyed.

The rest of the prom court is up here now; Sam and Finn are to the left of Figgins, while Santana, Nancy, and I are to the right. Nancy nudges me with her hip when she slides next to me. "Hey."

I look over at her and give a friendly smile that _is_ sincere, but man does it hurt, because by this point, my cheeks seriously feel like they're about to fall off. "Hey! Lookin' good, Pettison." Her dress is long and eggplant purple, a great color on her, and her hair has been tamed into soft waves.

"Thanks; I _love_ your dress," she says. She leans over me to tell Santana hi, and they exchange compliments, too.

Everyone else is gathered on the floor, staring up at us. I try to spot Rachel, but she's so short that it's impossible to amongst the hundreds of heads bobbing around.

"All right, children, children, settle down, please," Figgins says into the microphone. "Now is the much-anticipated time when I will open the envelope and name your chosen Prom King." He slides his thumb along the seal of the thick white envelope and pulls out the first strip of paper. He clears his throat and starts making this weird noise with his tongue; it takes me a minute to realize he's trying to sound like a drum-roll. People start whispering and giggling, so he stops and clears his throat again. "It was almost a tie, but with just _a percent_ more of the vote, the McKinley High Senior Class Prom King is…"

My heart stops for a second in nervous anticipation, hoping he'll say Sam's name…

"…Mr. Finn Hudson."

Well, never mind then.

Applause and joking catcalls erupt from the throng below as Finn steps forward, wearing a surprised, flattered half-smile that stretches all the way up to the corner of his eye. I can barely bring myself to clap, and beside me, I see that Santana is just tapping together her middle fingers.

"Damn it," she whispers to me. "I really wanted Sam to win. Now I have to dance with Mr. Two-Left Feet and risk getting my dress trampled on during our spotlighted slow-dance."

Rolling my eyes and chuckling at her typical overconfidence, I ask, just as quietly, "What makes you so sure you're going to win?"

"_Puhleeze_, have you _seen_ my competition?" she snorts, but her lips curl back just enough with humor that I know she's joking. "As in, I have none."

"As in, you're about to get blindsided and spend the whole night sulking into the punch," I quip.

Figgins is putting a furry, red with zebra-striped-trim crown onto Finn's head and handing him a fancy, silver scepter. Finn waves to the crowd cheering his name.

"Would you like to say a few words, Mr. Hudson?" Figgins asks, gesturing toward the microphone.

"Uh, sure," he says, blushing and stepping forward. He taps the microphone, for whatever godforsaken reason, which makes an obnoxious stream of feedback screech over the room. Everyone covers their ears and groans.

"Sorry, sorry!" he says, pulling back for a moment before trying again. "Um, hi." He grins, almost cockily, and somebody shouts, "WAY TO GO, FINN! WHOOOO!"

He laughs, self-indulgently, I think. "Thanks. Uh, I just want to say, well, thanks! This is pretty awesome." He waves the scepter around. "You guys made the right choice; I won't let you down. So, yeah…Thanks!"

Another burst of applause as he does a half-bow and a half-smile before stepping back next to Sam, who's smiling, clapping, and looks happy for his friend.

"A truly succinct and wise speech from your chosen one," Figgins says, with no hint of irony whatsoever.

"And now for your Prom Queen," he pulls out the last strip of paper. "It was a tight race between these three ladies, but one managed to pull above the rest…"

Santana flips her long tresses over her shoulders, which she straightens back even more, and beams out at the audience.

"Your McKinley High Senior Class Prom Queen iiiissss…"

Santana starts muttering rapid-fast sentences under her breath, and from the few things I catch, like "thank you for this honor" and "like to thank my fabulous girlfriend, Brittany," I can tell she's practicing her acceptance speech.

Wow. This really means a lot to her.

In that moment, I hope she gets it. Santana doesn't let herself want for a lot of things, but when she does, she puts her whole heart into it.

"…Miss Santana Loh-pez."

"OHMYGOD!" she screams, beside herself with ecstatic surprise. I guess she really wasn't as confident about her win as she let on. She turns toward me and Nancy and, flailing her arms around, somehow tackles us both into a crushing hug at the same time. "I WON?! I, _I WON!_ I FUCKING _WON!_"

Figgins sharply clears his throat at Santana's reaction, disapproval all over his face, but there's nothing he can do about it. Sighing, he plasters on a smile.

The crowd explodes with laughter and whistles, as Santana's shouting and, particularly, her expletive, are heard across the room even without microphone assistance. Nancy and I are laughing so hard that tears are in our eyes. My abs shake with guffaws, pure giddiness spilling all through me so that I'm overflowing with it.

From just below us, Brittany is screaming her head off, jumping up and down. "THAT'S MY GIRLFRIEND!" she yells, pumping both arms high in the air. "I'M DATING THE PROM QUEEN! SUUUCCCK IIITTTT!"

I try to hug Santana back, but she's already peeling away, hurrying over to the podium, hiking her dress up an inch or two so she doesn't trip over the sweeping hemline. The black-red color of it comes alive under the spotlight above the podium, making her appear to glint at certain angles like a human ruby.

"Wow!" she breathes, and it's only because I'm standing a few feet away that I can tell she's batting back tears. Figgins places the glittering silver tiara on her head and hands her the bouquet of crimson roses that were lying atop the podium.

She lifts a reverent hand up to touch the tiara, cradling the roses against her chest. Then, she picks up the microphone, pulling it from its stand, and beams out at the crowd.

"WE LOVE YOU, SANTANA!" somebody screams, causing a chain reaction of even more cheers, whistles, and explosive clapping. Nancy and I are clapping so hard that our hands become a blur through the air.

"You know what?" Santana says into the microphone, jutting not just her pointer finger but her entire arm out at whoever said that in the crowd. "I love you, too!"

She waits for everyone to quiet down before she launches into her acceptance speech. When she gets to the part where she thanks Brittany, a few people boo and somebody fake-coughs, loud enough to be heard even from where they stand in the back: "DYKE."

The word brings a hush along the room; icy panic seizes me, freezing my eyes wide and heart stalling, as I watch Santana stop mid-sentence. Her grin slides at half-mast, but after giving a hard blink, she furls it back up across her cheeks and resumes her spiel.

Which means that the crowd is respectfully quiet again, so that, when the guy shouts ago, every word is harsh and distinctive. "HEY, WHY DON'T YOU AND QUINN _FAG-GAY _GIVE US A KISS?"

The crowd ripples with sound: murmurs, snickers, some wolf-whistles at the idea.

My blood drains from my face, my heart clenches like a fist, and a wave of dizziness crashes over me so that I sway on my feet. Nancy notices and grabs onto my arm to steady me.

"Security!" Figgins snatches the microphone from Santana's hand and glares out at the crowd, fiercer than I've ever seen his typically indifferent face. "Find whoever said that and escort them from the premises!"

Immediately, two of the security guards positioned around the ballroom march forward, heading toward the direction of the voice.

Santana yanks the microphone back from Figgins; she doesn't appear to be freaking out like I am, but rather, an air of cool indifference floats from her.

"All right," she says into the microphone, "First off, whoever you are, _how dare you_, and second off, _fuck you_."

The crowd goes _crazy _with their cheering, now chanting Santana's name, a few "YOU GO, GIRL!"s rising up from the mass.

Figgins buries his face in his hands, and I think I catch him muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, "Why couldn't Nancy have won?"

I see security escorting the culprit out, some guy I don't even recognize. Some people clap for him, but a lot boo as he passes.

Santana huffs and tosses back her hair with her neck. "What_ever_, so, like, where was I? Oh, right, so, thanks; you all _totally_ made the right decision. Q and Nancy are both great, but it's obvious I'm the best choice, as you all so smartly proved when it was announced that I–"

"Thank you, Miss Loh-pez," Figgins says, pulling the mic away.

"But I'm not finished!"

"Oh yes; you are." He blows out a long, weary breath and then says into the microphone, "And now for the first dance of the night between your King and Queen…"

Nancy and I take that as our cue to exit the stage.

"You okay?" she asks me, concerned.

As I'm descending the stairs, my eyes fall to Rachel, who stands off to the side of the crowd, half-hidden in shadows. She's waving her hands wildly to catch my attention.

Just seeing her makes me feel a million times better, the embarrassment and anger from that jerk in the crowd dissolving in place of a nervous excitement. "I will be," I respond, my gaze locked on Rachel.

Nancy squeezes my arm again, lending a final bit of comfort, before meeting up with her date, a cute, sweet boy named Shaun whom I recognize as sometimes having gone to our – er, her – church.

The crowd is parting to make room in the middle for Santana and Finn to slow-dance, so no one pays any attention to me as I sneak off to where Rachel is hidden from view.

My feet carry me over to her, standing between a pair of columns that have terra-cotta pots of beautiful, blooming red roses on top. Their vines snake out, green and lively, beckoning me hello.

"Hey." A shy smile pulls at my lips when I finally reach her.

"Oh my gosh, are you okay?" Up close, I see the worry burning in her eyes, but behind that, fury. "That complete _asshole! _I can't _believe_ he would do that to you and Santana, honestly, if I see him again, I will not hesitate in going right up to him and sing-screaming a high-F note loud enough in his ears that he goes deaf! Honestly, I can't _believe_ the _nerve_ of him, _wow_…"

My smile presses in on itself in fond amusement. I just stare at her, with so much love in my heart that I think it'll burst with it, thinking back to what Santana told me, and hoping, _praying_ that it's true.

Behind me, in the center of the room, a bright spotlight shines over Finn and Santana; the rest of the lights in the room dim.

Rachel and I are left lit only by the twinkling lights hanging in the corner right above us; their dappled, gentle glow make her dress sparkle and wink into a thousand tints of gold, and her eyes are no longer amber-brown but just plain amber. Well, not '_plain_ amber,' but '_gorgeous_ and _vivid_ amber.'

She stops ranting when she notices my lack of response. "What?" she asks, appearing suddenly self-conscious, a hand going up to pat along her jaw. "Why are you staring at me like that? Do I have something on my face?"

The sound of our peers clapping for their Queen and King is background noise to my hammering heart. "Do you want to dance?" I ask before I can think better of it, and chew on my lip.

"But there's no music," she says, and even in the dim lighting, I can see her blush, rivaling the roses framing us on either side.

As if it heard and wants to prove her wrong, a song drifts over the room from the speakers. The first song of the night for the first slow-dance. I know that, behind me, everyone is pairing off with their dates.

"There is now," I say, and for a long moment, we just stare at each other. My question – _do you want to dance? _– echoes in the space between us a thousand times, all in one instant, and then she steps forward and nods.

"Okay," she says, and we exchange nervous but happy smiles.

The song "Speechless" by The Veronicas starts to play around us, everywhere and nowhere all at once, just for me and her. There's no one else even in the room anymore, which has shrunken to just these two columns guarding either side of us.

The song has a slow, haunting tempo with a gorgeous instrumental arrangement rife with emotion; I let it fill me up.

Our smiles melt away as we shuffle closer, a soft and meaningful look filling our locked eyes. Soon, we're close enough that I can see my reflection in her pupils.

Rachel slips her arms around my neck; my hands shake as I set them onto the dip of her tiny waist. We somehow move even closer, until the entire front of our bodies from the shoulders down are but an inch apart. She rests her chin right into the crook of my neck; I settle mine on top of her silky hair, which tickles against my throat, and catch her wonderful scent of lavender-vanilla, of floral and sweetness.

A raw, naked, beautiful voice that seems to sing to my very soul leads into the song. It's breathy, a heartbreaking beauty to the vocals that swirls through the air and takes up residence in my heart, the mood shifting within me to something profound: Vulnerability and strength. That head-rush of falling, but the security of believing, at least for now, that I'll land safely.

_Feels like I have always known you_

_And I swear I dreamt about you_

_All those endless nights I was alone_

_It's like I've spent forever searching_

_Now I know that it was worth it_

_With you it feels like I am finally home_

Somewhere along the way, we moved closer; the entire front of our bodies pressed flush together now. My knees are so weak, wobbly like Jell-O, that I think I would collapse if she weren't holding me up. My heart flutters like a hummingbird. My eyes stay closed, breathing her in, savoring this moment.

_Falling head over heels_

_Thought I knew how it feels_

_But with you it's like the first day of my life_

Rachel nuzzles closer against my shoulder, her fingers tightening against the nape of my neck. Without even knowing it, my hands have slid from her hips so that now my arms encircle her all the way around, hugging her to me.

'_Cause you leave me speechless_

_When you talk to me_

_You leave me breathless_

_The way you look at me_

_You manage to disarm me_

_My soul is shining through_

_Can't help but surrender_

_My everything to you_

We sway from side-to-side, slowly, in perfect tandem. She's wrapped within my arms, and I'm being pulled even further into her with her hands at my neck: we're so close, so tightly seamed that I don't know where my heartbeat stops and hers begins.

_I thought I could resist you_

_I thought that I was strong_

_Somehow you were different from what I've known_

_I didn't see you comin'_

_You took me by surprise and_

_You stole my heart before I could say no_

Delicious, fevered happiness rolls over me in warm, tingly waves; I have goosebumps all over. My chest is impossibly full, my pulse beating in erratic, perfect beats. My blood feels warm and slow and lazy.

_Falling head over heels_

_Thought I knew how it feels_

_But with you it's like the first day of my life_

_You leave me speechless_

_When you talk to me_

_You leave me breathless_

_The way you look at me_

_You manage to disarm me_

_My soul is shining through_

_I can't help but surrender_

_Oh no_

_My everything to you_

_You leave me speechless!_

_(The way you smile; the way you touch my face)_

_You leave me breathless!_

_(It's something that you do, I can't explain)_

_I'd run a million miles just to hear you say my name_

_Baby!_

The song builds to a final crescendo around us, the lyrics soaring through my heart. I don't want it to end; I want it to play on a loop all through the night, so I can keep swaying with her, forever, the rest of the world forgotten.

_You leave me speechless_

_You leave me breathless_

_The way you look at me_

_You manage to disarm me_

_My soul is shining through_

_I can't help but surrender_

_Oh, my everything to you_.

The final note plays out, echoing long inside me, and we stay like that, linked impossibly close together. The music changes, picks up speed, all '70's and soul: _Shake it; shake it! Shake your groove thang; shake your groove thang; yeah-yeah! Show 'em how they do it now_...

And yet even though the music is no longer slow and romantic and dreamy, the mood between us doesn't change in the slightest. Without even saying anything, just naturally in agreement, we slowly peel ourselves from each other. Just a few inches, really, just enough to connect eyes. Her fingers are still locked around my neck; mine are still locked at the small of her back. I can still feel our hearts pounding together to the same beat.

_Now,_ I think. _Say it now!_

My stomach is jittery and jumpy, and my pulse is quickening, and my throat is drying out, but I know I have to find the words. "Rachel, I… I'm…"

Her eyes are so serious and arresting, sucking me in, almost drowning me in their emotion. "Yes?"

"I'm-" _In love with you_. I'm about to say it. The words hover at the edges of my lips.

But then, in _perfect_ timing, a voice comes bounding over to us. "Oh, _there_ you are!"

Rachel and I jump away from each other as if electrocuted. And, of fucking course, here comes _Finn fucking Hudson_, the most oblivious of grins on his face as he waves his scepter around like a little kid. And for some reason, seeing him with such childish glee makes guilt gnaw at my insides, battling it out between fury and irritation over him _always_, unfailingly, ruining everything. It's like his superpower.

But mostly what I feel is defeat; my entire body sags with it, the incredible mood gone, my heart breaking in half, not evenly, but jagged, so that it rips into my next breath.

"Can you believe it?" Finn boasts to Rachel, whose eyes are darting back and forth from me to Finn, me to Finn, at lightning speed, a myriad of emotions running over her face. "I'm the Prom King!"

Belatedly, Rachel says, "Oh! Yeah! Congrats! Um…" She looks at me, into me, right through me. "What were you about to say, Quinn?"

I open my mouth and freeze. Yeah, right, like I'm going to spill my guts, my _soul_, out in front of her _boyfriend_. So, instead, I say, feeling listless and tired, "Nothing. Congratulations, Finn."

He smiles at me. "Thanks. Oh, and Puck is looking for you."

Oh, right. Puck. My date. Whom I _should_ have been dancing with during that song, but totally forgot.

I can barely even nod and can definitely _not_ look at Rachel again. "Okay. Cool. I'm going to go get some punch…"

My legs feel filled with lead as I hurry away from them, like in one of those nightmares where you're running away from something, but no matter how hard you try, your legs won't go faster than a jog.

_Don't be sad; don't sulk; cheer up!_ I demand to myself. Prom is supposed to be a night to remember. And I want it to be for _good_ reasons, not bad ones.

The only thing that keeps me going, the spark of hope floating in my chest, is this:

The night isn't over yet.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

About an hour later, after refreshing my senses by downing a cup of punch (which was manned by Coach Sue, who cheered me up with her dry commentary of the evening), I've been dancing the night away with various friends, almost all of which are Glee Clubbers.

My shoes kicked to the side, I jump around in a circle of pure, excited energy with Blaine, Kurt, Tina, and Mike. "_I WAAANNNT YOOUUU TO WAANNTT MEEEE!_" we sing along with the song, embarrassingly off-key and shout-singing for a group of friends who met through a club for vocal talent, but we're having too much fun to care. "_I NEEEEDD YOOOUUU TO NEEEDD MEEE!_" We point at each other and make goofy faces, laughing our butts off, grabbing hands, hopping around. We're such goobers, and I _love_ it.

I've broken out into a light sweat, my face flushed, a smile nestled high up my cheeks. Santana and Brittany nudge their way into our crazy circle, cutting in between me and Blaine. Santana – whose tiara is now at a lopsided angle atop her head, some of its prongs tangled in her hair – grabs my wrists in her hands, pulls me against her, and then pushes me back out again. She repeats the action a few times as we all continue to sing. "_I'D LOOOVE YOU TO LOOOVE MEEE! I'M BEGGING YOU TO BEG MEEE!_" Brittany pop-lock-and-drops it all over the place, somehow still limber in such a tight dress.

"Heeeyyyy, Prom Queen!" I shout at Santana, feeling positively giddy. "Where are your roses?"

"Off to the side with my shoes," Santana replies, spinning me around by the tips of my fingers so fast that I get dizzy. "Which no one better steal or they will seriously have to pay, and not just monetarily."

I start to stumble to the floor, but Tina's arm snakes around my waist, holding me up; we exchange a grin before I turn back to Santana. Tina lets me go.

"You're loving the threatening-talk lately, aren't you?" I ask Santana, bumping my hip into hers.

"Maybe, just a little bit," she shrugs and smirks, releasing me so she can dance all over Brittany.

We've reached the chorus now, so we all join in together again: "_DIDN'T I, DIDN'T I, DIDN'T I SEE YOU CRYING? OHHH, DIDN'T I, DIDN'T I, DIDN'T SEE YOU CRRRYYINNGG?_"

"I LOVE THIS SONG!" Kurt shouts at me.

"I LOVE YOUR TOP HAT!" I shout back, to which he laughs wildly.

"I LOVE LIFE!" Blaine pops in, throwing his arms out wide and surprisingly not hitting anybody.

"WHY ARE YOU GUYS SHOUTING?" Mike asks.

"WE DON'T KNOW!" Kurt and I reply in unison, which makes all of us crack up.

"DANCE WITH ME," Santana slides in front of my line of vision again, blocking everybody else out. She holds out her hand, fingers wiggling. I slip my hand into hers and let her pull me out of earshot from our friends. We pass by Artie, his date Avery, Mercedes, and Sam, and stop for a minute or two to dance with them before Santana drags me off again.

She leans in close enough that only I can hear her, so she doesn't have to yell, and then says, "I'm going to ask Brittany to marry me." It's so random, so _not_ what I was expecting, that for a moment, I don't understand. I just blink at her, confused.

"Wait… _What?_"

"I said, I'm going to – "

"No, no, I got it," I wave an impatient hand through the air. "You're going to _propose to her?_ We haven't even graduated!"

She rolls her eyes. "I didn't say _when_ I'm going to propose. Just that I'm going to one day. Not too far into the future, but not too late, either. Yes, after we graduate, but probably before we finish college."

"Ohhhkaayyy…" My eyebrows scrunch together above my wrinkling nose. "I'm, like, seriously confused. Why are you telling me this? If it's not happening anytime soon, then – "

"Because," she interrupts with a huff. "Brittany Susan Pierce is the love of my life. All of the happiness she's brought me, all of her love that's changed me, all of the ways I've become a better person just by being with her? None of that would have happened if I hadn't told her how I feel."

My blood runs cold. "Santana…"

"No, just listen to me. Have you told her?"

"What?"

"Have you told Rachel tonight?"

"No, but…"

"And why not?" Santana looks angry. "Look, I know I'm being pushy here, Quinn, but I know – "

"She's going to sleep with Finn," I blurt out.

Santana's face snaps into shock. "Are you serious?"

"That's what she said. I mean, what she _might_ do." I feel sick just thinking about it.

"She won't," Santana says empathically, then, less certainly, "She _can't_."

"My thoughts exactly, but…" I trail off and go to run a hand through my hair until I remember it's coiled back, so I settle for rubbing the back of my neck instead.

The song changes to "Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac. Santana's eyes grow wide and teary as this dorky smile spreads across her face. "Oh my God!" she gushes, clapping a hand to her mouth to keep a sob from escaping; the sound pops out anyway, tender and beautiful. "This is my and Britt's song! Sorry, Q, but I gotta go." And she runs off to her girlfriend, leaving me with even more to mull over.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

"All right, children, let's put our hands together for the prom committee! They put together one heck of a dance!" Principal Figgins says, onstage again and speaking into his microphone.

There's a hearty amount of applause and whooping it up.

"And now for our final song of the evening, a slow dance for all the couple's out there," Figgins says. "Enjoy."

I turn to Puck, who stands right next to me. We haven't separated from each other's side for the past hour. I can't believe prom is already almost over. I've hung out with everyone, including Nancy and her date, even with Rachel again (albeit only in a big group setting where we didn't have to specifically address each other).

Puck bows to me and holds out his hand. "After you, my lady."

I flashback to just a few hours ago, when the night started with that same gesture. I laugh and curtsy. "Why thank you, kind sir."

We move closer to the center of the dance floor, and stop when we're near Mercedes and Sam, who are too caught up in their own private bubble of bliss to even notice us.

Puck and I stand close together; I link my hands behind his neck as he places his on my waist, and I realize this was more or less how Rachel and I started out with our dance… I feel both beauty and pain slam over me at the memory. They seem to go hand-in-hand where Rachel is concerned.

And then, as if I conjured her just by thinking of her, the couple beside us decides to relocate and, as they do, they reveal Finn and Rachel on the other side of where they'd been. A gap of about five feet stretches between me and Rachel, but it might as well be five hundred miles.

Rachel and Finn are standing at an angle where I see them side-on; any other way and Rachel wouldn't have seen me. If her back was to me and Puck, she obviously wouldn't have, and if Finn's back had been to us, his frame would have blocked us out.

So, as it is, she happens to look over and notice me at the exact moment I notice her.

Our eyes lock; a beat of impossible heaviness; then, in unison, we look away. My chest throbs.

I look back over after a second and note how awkward Rachel and Finn are together; he is _way_ too tall for her. She can't even put her arms around his neck; instead, she grips his upper arms while he has one hand on her shoulder and the other on her hip.

I reattach my eye-contact to Puck's; since his back is to them, he doesn't know that Rachel and Finn are just a few feet away.

He smiles at me, sweet and tender. "You know every dude here – and some chicks – are totally jealous of me, right? You're by far the most beautiful girl here, Quinn."

I break into a grin. "Likewise, only, you know, reversed. I'm really glad you're my date tonight, Puck."

"Same here."

The music starts, the last song of the evening, the last song of my senior prom. I'm nostalgic already.

It's beautiful and timeless, all dreamy piano and succulent voice, a cover of one of my all-time favorites, sung with a fresh spin: "Can't Help Falling in Love," Ingrid Michaelson's version.

I close my eyes and rest my cheek on Puck's chest, letting the music fill me up, that voice drizzling like hot syrup through my ears and into my soul.

_Wise men say only fools rush in_

_But I can't help falling in love with you_

I planned on staying against Puck's chest for the entire song, but after just a few verses, I'm already pulling back and checking over his shoulder again. My gaze falls on Rachel and lingers; she's staring up at Finn, who is talking to her, obviously too quietly for me to hear. He seems intense; she, troubled.

Just as I'm about to break away, she looks over and our eyes graze again, connecting for a heartbeat too long.

_Shall I stay_

_Would it be a sin_

_If I can't help falling in love with you_

A shiver passes down my spine and a blush prickles beneath my skin as I whip my stare back to Puck's.

"Hey," Puck says with a frowning brow. "What's wrong?"

"It's Rachel," I say, not able to stop the truth from flooding out when looking into his kind, concerned eyes. "I'm… I'm in love with her." I check back over at her and Finn, not able to help the compulsion.

_Like a river flows_

_Surely to the sea_

_Darling, so it goes_

_Some things are meant to be_

"Yeah," he says, "I know."

I whip back toward him. "You do?!"

A shock jolts through me as our eyes meet and I realize he's looking at me in that same heavy, scrutinizing way he did on Wednesday.

"Um, duh." He snorts and rolls his eyes. "It's only, like, _extremely _obvious every time you look at her with those big, glowing eyes."

I blush even harder at that, thankful for the dim lighting. "How long have you known?"

"Okay, maybe just since Wednesday, when you acted all weird when Finn kissed her," he confirms my suspicions, "but once I figured it out, it made sense. You've totally been in love with her the whole time, haven't you?"

_So, take my hand_

_And take my whole life, too_

'_Cause I can't help falling in love with you_

When I remain silent, he nods, taking that as confirmation. "Cool."

"So, why didn't you say anything to me about it?" I ask.

"You have enough drama in your life; I thought if you wanted me to know, you'd tell me. And you just did, so you must want me to know."

I sigh. "Okay then, now you know why I'm sulking. I'm in love with her, but she doesn't love me back."

"How do you know that?"

"Um, maybe because she came here with _Finn?_" Now it's my turn to roll my eyes with 'duh.'

"That doesn't mean shit! Have you ever actually _told_ her your feelings before?"

I nibble on my bottom lip and resist the temptation to hazard another glance her way. It's futile; my gaze swings to her as surely as the earth around the sun, but to my surprise, _she's _the one caught doing the staring this time.

_Like a river flows so surely to the sea_

_Oh, my darling, so it goes_

_Some things are meant to be_

She averts her eyes – which had been filled with such longing that my heart stopped. "No…"

"Then you don't know if she loves you or not," he says, staring deeply into my eyes.

"But – " I begin.

"No buts!" Puck shakes his head. "The only _butt_ I want to see is yours marching over to Rachel and sweeping her off her feet."

I choke on panic at first but then the words come bursting out. "I can't!"

"Why not?" he demands.

_So, won't you please take my hand_

_And take my whole life, too_

'_Cause I can't help falling in love_

_In love with you!_

Goosebumps explode along my arms, my back, my neck, at the inhuman beauty of the song, soaring so high and raw and powerful. That, coupled with what Puck's suggesting – it makes my knees weaken, buckling together.

"Because…Because…" I sputter, looking over at her again. She's talking to Finn, her lips moving fast, and he's nodding and listening. "What if she doesn't love me back?! Or, even if she does, what if she doesn't choose me over Finn?!" My eyes are wild as they turn back to Puck's.

'_Cause I can't help_

_Falling in love_

_Falling in love…_

"But what if she does?" he insists.

I look back over at her; now Finn appears to be talking, and she's the one nodding and listening, her eyes not budging from his. "But what if she doesn't?"

…_I keep falling in love…_

Puck grabs my face and makes me lock eye-contact with him, startling my heart rate. "But what if she _does_," he repeats with all the meaning in the world.

…_with_…

His words sink in, all through me.

…_you_.

The song ends, just like that; everybody claps and cheers, and there's the sound of sniffling and crying and laughing as everyone gets lost in their own lives, their own memories to be made.

But I hardly even notice anything but the unabashed hope scorching inside my heart. Determination slams into me like a sledgehammer.

"Go get your girl," Puck says, giving my waist an emphatic little shake. "What are you waiting for?"

Grinning, I lean in and kiss his cheek. "You're amazing! Thank you!"

"I know," he says with a smug smile. "Now, _go!_" And he pushes me forward with a swat to my rump, making me giggle.

But the laughter dies right off my lips when my gaze goes toward Rachel and finds not her, but empty space where she stood. I whip around, frantic, and spot Finn's furry crown, bobbing high above the crowd. Some people part, and I see that he and Rachel are walking together, far ahead at the doors leading back into the lobby.

I'm all the way on the other side of the ballroom.

The Glee Club planned to meet at the punch bowl after prom so we could all go up to our suite together.

Finn and Rachel are _on their own_…

I know what they're planning to do.

I have to stop them; I'll never make it in time.

I whirl back toward Puck, who's also searching the crowd. "Where'd they go?" he asks. "They were right behind me, right, judging from where your eyes kept going? So… Where's Rachel?"

Without thinking, I bend down and whip off my high-heels. "Will you please hold these?" I ask, shoving them into his hands without waiting for a response. I _cannot_ run in heels.

"Um, okay?" He stares at me, worried. "What exactly are you planning on doing?"

"Exactly what you said." I'm already jogging away from him. "Getting my girl!"

I pick up speed but can't exactly sprint when there are so many people around, lest I want an injury. I hurry through the double-doors leading into the lobby as fast as I can and search for Rachel.

And then, I see her, up ahead – _oh shit!_ She's stepping into an elevator with Finn.

I cup my hands around my mouth. "RACHEL!" The receptionist at the front desk shoots me a scandalized glare, and almost everyone turns around to look at me, and I'm _sprinting_ forward – but it's too late. The elevator doors slide closed, sealing in Rachel, and I have no clue as to which floor she's headed.

Acting on blind instinct, I spin around – almost knocking over one of my classmates – and run back into the ballroom, bare feet squeaking on the hardwood floor. "KURT!" I shout. "KUURRRTTT!"

I find him by the punch bowl with almost all the rest of the Glee Club, where he's swiveling around in confusion. When he sees me bolting over to him, his eyes widen in recognition, but then his forehead creases. Panting, I skid to a stop in front of him, nearly ramming right into Blaine.

"Did you know about the hotel room Finn rented?" I ask, out of breath.

Everyone is staring at me, including Coach Sue, who's still behind the refreshment's table.

"Um…" He adjusts the collar of his white button-down with nervous fingers. "…Yes?"

"What number is it?" I demand, my heart feeling like it's about to rip from my body.

"Um, it's room 502…"

"Thanks!" I do a dorky salute off my forehead. "You're a life-saver!"

"Wait!" Coach Sue barks as I start to run off again. "What's this all about?"

"No time to explain, Coach." I know I'm acting like a total loon, but I couldn't care less. I whip around and practically fly out of there from how fast my legs and arms pump. But my heart pumps even faster.

The receptionist yells at me as I pass her, but I keep on going, shoving past the people waiting in line for the elevator and slipping inside of it. "Sorry; emergency!" I call out just before the doors close. There are only two other people in here, both wearing prom attire so I take it they're classmates of mine, but I don't recognize them.

They stare at me, bewildered by my manic state, I'm sure. I look at the panel of buttons; the number '2' is the only one lit up; I hit the '5' so hard that I'm surprised it doesn't break.

It's an agonizingly slow, awkward ride to floor two; the couple keeps staring at me weirdly as I tap my foot and bounce on my toes and tap my fingertips together, all the while muttering to myself "_come on; come on; come on_…"

_Finally,_ they get off on floor two. I hit the 'DOORS CLOSED' button before anyone else can get on, and thankfully, the ride up to five is smooth, no stops, but still too slow for my liking.

The second the doors start to pop open, I squeeze through them, my bare soles slapping onto hard, fuzzy carpeting. My eyes dart this way and that, trying to find Rachel, or maybe even just Finn who will lead me _to_ Rachel… They're nowhere in sight, but then, _duh_, Kurt told me the room number.

I race around like a chicken with its head cut off, searching for '502.' I go down the path with all odd numbers first, then turn back around, and hurry down the even numbers path, my feet almost getting carpet-burn from how quickly I keep changing direction.

When I stop in front of '502,' I lift my fist and bang against the door. "Rachel? Are you in there?"

A few pounds on the wooden frame later, and the door swings open; I almost fall inside the room, my fist swinging through thin air, but manage to right myself just in time.

Finn stands before me; his hat is off, as is his jacket, and, I notice with horror, the top few buttons are undone under a loosened tie. "Quinn?" stares at me with a mixture of confusion and accusation. "What are you doing here?"

I don't have time to deal with him. "Where's Rachel?" I demand, catching my breath, hands planted on my hips. My heart has never beat so hard or so fast in my life.

"Uh, I think she's with her dads in the hotel room you two are staying in. They brought your bags…" He narrows his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. "Why do you want to know so badly?"

_Oh my God…_ Relief washes over me, popping my crazed emotions like a sharp pin to a bubble. "So, she's _not_ with you?" I clarify, choosing to ignore his question yet again.

"Nope," he says, and I think anger flashes through his eyes, but I'm already hurrying away, back down the hall, and can't give him a second look to confirm this.

"What's going on?" he demands after me, but I just wave over my shoulder and hit the button for the elevator.

I'm done running from my problems; now I'm running _to _them, to solve them head-on, maybe even literally.

I've spent too much time being afraid. Right now? I'm terrified. Not of what will happen if I tell Rachel how I feel, but of what will happen if I _don't_. Because the only risks we truly regret in life are the ones we don't take.

The room Rachel's dads rented for us is at the very top floor, room 1010; I remember that. I hit the proper button and then wait in a maddening impatience for the elevator to rise up and up and up and... Finally, it spits me out.

When I enter the hallway, I see a giant window across the hall, looking out into the horizon. Sometime tonight, it started raining, the sound cloaked by the prom festivities in the ballroom.

Outside is a thrashing mess, the world alive with sheets of rain, gusts of winds, and bolts of lightning. I hear a rumble of thunder, feel it through me, charging my veins. The strength of it is the final burst of courage I need.

I run to room 1010 and pound on the door. My knees shake, my heart races, and my stomach is so knotted that I can barely breathe; I have _never_ felt more alive.

The door opens to reveal Rachel. When her eyes land on mine, an indecipherable expression takes hold of her face. "Oh!" she says. "Quinn! I – I… My dads just left. They brought our bags. I was actually just going to go see – "

_To go see Finn_, is what she was surely just about to say. What she _would _have said. If I hadn't interrupted her, pushing past into the room.

Rachel closes the door and turns to face me, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She opens her mouth to speak again, but I hold up my hand and shake my head, again silently cutting her off.

For a few seconds, we just stare at each other. My heart is beating so fast that I feel like I may pass out.

"_Rachel_." Her name squeezes from my throat. I step forward, my eyes never wavering from hers, and reach out my hand. I grab onto one of hers and pull her toward me, but instead of dropping it, I grab the other one, too, now holding up both in the gap between our bodies. It's time I bridged that gap for good. "Wait; don't go."

Rachel stares at me out of huge, frightened eyes. "Don't go where?"

I caress my fingers along her hands as my eyes burn into hers. All I see is Rachel; all I _feel_ is Rachel. Her beauty before me; her smooth, warm hands in my own.

When I speak, it's with confidence, with conviction, even though I have never felt more vulnerable. I might as well be standing naked before her. My heart races in my chest, equal parts fear and _excitement_. I'm finally doing this! I'm finally going to tell Rachel how I feel, and it is _incredible_.

"Don't go to Finn," I say, and I know my eyes are doing that big, glowing thing they only do around her. Like the ghost of tears are shining in them from behind. "Stay with me. _Choose _me."

I'm still stroking along her hands, and I hear Rachel's intake of breath, so sharp and so deep. "Wh-what do you mean?"

I tell her exactly what I mean by using no words at all.

My eyes not even blinking from hers, I lean in, slowly, giving her time to push me away or jump back if she wants to. She doesn't. I drop her hands to encircle my arms around her waist, tugging her stomach against mine.

My gaze drops to her mouth – her perfect, _perfect_ mouth – as I lean in. I hear another gasp of breath but don't know if it's hers or mine. I'm shaking from the inside-out with a volcano of finally-erupting emotions, laid dormant for four years too long.

My eyes flutter closed as I kiss her, my heart _thumpthumpthump_ing in my ears. My mouth presses right against hers, almost _into _hers, the tip of my bottom lip sliding in between her two plump, flawless ones. The pressure is hard yet soft, her lips so smooth and delicious.

She tastes like spearmint, just a little. She tastes like bubblegum-flavored ChapStick, layers deep. She tastes like everything I have ever wanted.

My blood burns like fire through my veins, scorching me from the inside-out. A happy explosion of neon fireworks explodes in my soul; my eyelids flutter as I press further against her and then pull back, ending it far too soon, our lips making this beautiful smacking noise as they part.

I gulp against my dried throat and choke on nothing. When I finally open my eyes, I see that Rachel's are still closed, her lids fluttering. Her lips are parted, just a little bit.

"_That's_ what I mean," I say, prompting her eyes to blink open.

"_Quinn_." It's a breath of a word.

"I love you, Rachel." I lick my lips and a nostalgic, breathless laugh tickles my throat. I'm unable to contain a giant, toothy grin as I look at her and warm tears rush to my eyes. "I've been in love with you for four years. You rescued me from the fake version of myself. You taught me that…" I release a tiny sob, force myself to keep going and not get choked up. "…that it's okay to accept who I really am. You make me laugh; you make me want to be a better person; you make me _happy_. You're my very own Prin_cess_ Charming.

"It's like what that song that played tonight said." I blink and the tears fall over, zipping down my heated face. I'm trembling all over. "'I can't help falling in love with you.' Every day, every time you laugh, every time we touch – hell, every time I see you – I fall for you all over again."

She's just standing there, wearing a frozen, shocked expression, so I keep babbling, letting all of my suppressed feelings, all of my love, spill over. I feel lighter and lighter, as if each word I utter, each secret I finally let fly free, is a weight I rid from my soul.

I swipe at my tears and keep staring into her eyes, as if held by a magnet. "I am deeply, head-over-heels, out-of-this-world in love with you. And _that's _why you shouldn't be with Finn. Because there is no way that he, or anybody else, could ever love _anyone_ as much as I love you." My chin quivers, and I pray to God that she speaks soon, because I'm about to break down into an incoherent mess.

"Rach?" I squeak, more tears slipping out, hotter now, faster. "_Please_, say something. I'm dying here."

Rachel shakes her head and blinks a few times; finally, _finally_, her expression changes. It goes from stunned to exuberant, her eyes lighting up with tears and happiness. Her mouth unfurls into a beatific grin.

This time, she's the one who reaches out, grabbing onto my hands, her fingers nudging between mine in that perfect fit we have. "I'm going to kiss you now."

I beam back, my grin taking over my entire face, and let loose a shaky laugh. "It's about damn time!"

She giggles this emotional little giggle, music to my ears.

So much giddiness rushes all through my body that it's like I'm a bottle that has finally been uncorked, all bubbles and _pop _and a flood of unbridled feelings. Rachel slides her hands up alongside my face, capturing my gaze again, and I know just by looking into her eyes – finally open and unguarded, just as vulnerable and passionate as mine surely are – that she feels the same way I do.

And if I'd had any doubts before, the kiss she lays on me seals the deal.

Our mouths slide together, pressing so firmly as if we want to merge them permanently, and we release these little moaning, whining noises at the same time. I press my hands against her back as she keeps hers along my face, and our bodies have no space between them now, as it should always be.

I let my tongue peek out and graze against her bottom lip; she does this sort of gasping thing, the sexiest sound I've ever heard, and shoves closer against me, kissing deeper, tasting me, making love to my mouth with hers.

A blissful, red-hot sensation radiates right between my legs, in my stomach, in my heart. When we have to separate our mouths for oxygen, we rest our foreheads against each other's, panting a little.

I vibrate with glee, my teeth chattering from it, and indulge in another epic smile.

"I'm in love with you, too," Rachel says, nipping at my lips again; a shiver rockets down my spine until my happy little toes curl with it. "So much, like I could just _explode_ with it. I love you like you're Broadway as a person – all my hopes and dreams and happiness and meaning, all in one."

I release the happiest, lightest laugh of my life, spilling pure warmth from my very soul. "I think that's the best compliment you could ever give me."

"Less talking; more kissing," Rachel laughs back, the sound just as free, just as joyful, and leans in again.

Our height-difference is so perfect; neither of us has to move much at all. Our lips meet perfectly in the middle. The kiss is sensuous, slow, quickening and turning hungry, eager. Then it slows down, delicate, careful, soft and sweet.

She starts to pull back to give me my space, but I don't want it; I've lived with space for almost eighteen years. Now I finally have somebody who kisses me like I'm someone special and fragile, worth taking care of. The boys I kissed did it like they were claiming a trophy, the hot and popular cheerleader they could add on their shelf by sticking their tongue down her throat. Even Sam, the one boy who actually loved me, always kissed me like I was some fantasy he was eagerly living out.

And for once, I can actually kiss back and feel something, feel a flutter in my chest rather than an empty ringing.

Strike that: I kiss her and don't feel something; I feel _everything_. All through me, inside and out, overwhelming, consuming my mind and body whole.

We kiss and kiss and freaking _kiss_, like our lives depend on it, the storm raging around us outside. I hear thunderclaps, the patter of rain on the roof above. It's a wonderful soundtrack.

When we get tired of standing, I intertwine my fingers with Rachel's and pull her to one of the double-beds. Giggling like madwomen, we jump onto the mattress; it bounces under our weight, playing matchmaker and sending me sprawling half on-top of Rachel. The sleek pink fabric of my dress mingles with the shimmery gold of hers.

I stare down into Rachel's amber-colored eyes with those long, curly lashes and bring a hand up to brush some stray hairs from her forehead. My hand stops at the side of her face, cradling it; my thumb brushes over her cheekbone as our smiling gazes soften.

I lean in and kiss her forehead, the smooth strip of skin between her eyebrows, the tip of her glorious nose, press my lips into her mouth with a delving tongue, then kiss her cheek, along her chiseled jaw in either direction, peck onto her beauty mark, my lips trailing along slow and delectable and searching. I hear her contented sigh, feel one of her hands drift behind me and dig her fingers against my spine as if she has to hold onto for balance.

I feel lightheaded, joyously so, and swing my legs to straddle her; our pelvises meet in the middle, tingles shooting all within me, and we gasp at the contact. I lower myself to her mouth and move my hands to her elbows, running my fingers up the underside of her forearms until my fingertips brush her wrists, relishing in the goosebumps I feel sprouting in my wake. My fingers dance up her palms and then connect in between hers. Impatient, Rachel leans up to capture my mouth again.

Her tongue peeks out and flicks along the seam of mine, beckoning entrance, and I moan, my muscles and bones seeming to melt within me from the heat of my body, the simmering of my veins.

Rachel's hand slips down my dress, seizing onto my ass, grabbing hold and squeezing. It's a totally inappropriate reaction, but I tear my mouth from hers so I can laugh.

She opens her eyes and stares at me, so affectionately and amused, but her pupils are so big and black that they almost devour all of the brown around them. The desire there fuels my own to the core.

"Why, Miss Fabray?" she asks teasingly, "Are you blushing?" She taps her fingers against my ass.

"Everywhere," I answer with a shy smile, and now _she_ is laughing, throwing her head back onto the bed with the force of it.

"Same here," she giggles. "Oh my _God_, Quinn… I…" She shakes her head, rolls her eyes, and then pushes up on her elbows – the areas between our legs mingling further, which knocks the breath from me – and smacks her lips onto mine, gently, sweetly. "Like, uh…" She huffs and kisses again, our mouths smacking and slipping and locking tight. "You leave me speechless." She sounds frustrated, but also delighted.

"Like the song," I smile – I have a feeling I won't stop doing _that_ for a while, if ever. "The one we slow-danced to."

Rachel smiles back, bashful and beautiful. That special smile I've only ever seen her use on me; her voice soft, savoring her words. "How could I ever have been stupid enough to think I wasn't in love with you?"

"How could _I_ ever have been stupid enough to think I wasn't gay?" I joke, licking my lips as my hungry stare bores onto her mouth, so plump and ripe and reddened and delicious.

She chuckles. "And boy am I glad you are, Q."

"I like it when you call me, Q."

"I know; that's why I do it."

"For the record, I'm totally glad I am, too." I slink my arms around her waist and prop her up, holding our chests together. I smile with everything in me, gazing into her shining-happy eyes.

"Don't we have an after-party to get to?" she asks, reaching up a reverent fingertip to stroke down my face, as if she can't believe I'm real. She cups my face with her hand.

"They can wait. The whole _world_ can wait," I say, turning my head to kiss her palm.

"Best prom ever," she sighs dreamily.

"And the night's only just begun." I bounce my eyebrows and kiss her again, pouring everything she means to me into it, not holding back, never again.

And she kisses me back, with just as much tender love and a burning promise of forever.

_Eat your heart out, Cinderella_.


	45. Chapter 45

Hey, guys! :D I'm finally back! A big, giant, heartfelt thank you for all of the support from the last chapter, and to all the new readers I've acquired between then and now. I know it's taken me a while, but that last chapter took a lot out of me to write, and I needed some time to recharge my creative batteries. And some other things happened, one thing in particular that is tragic.

The tragedy I speak of is the passing of Cory Monteith. I'm sure by now you are all well-aware of his untimely death. Here's a hug for anyone who needs one, for any reason, but particularly in the loss of one of our Glee family. *Hug!* I feel that I need to establish something, because some people have a hard time understanding that reality and fiction are different, and that an actor is not the character they play - that's why it's called "acting" in the first place, lol. **Cory is not Finn. **I've always had a lot of love for Cory, and I still do. But I don't particularly like Finn Hudson, and that's not going to change because the man who portrayed him has died. The characterization of Finn in this story will remain true to how it has been set-up since the beginning; there won't be a complete 180. I'm sure Cory would care less how a _fictional character _is portrayed in a _fanfiction,_ whether he played that character or not. So, please do not be offended if Finn does not come across as the most heroic and kindest of characters in the upcoming chapters. **It's okay to like Cory but dislike Finn. That does not make you a bad person. **I feel that I need to state this because some people, especially in this fandom, with all of the actors, really, not just Cory, seem to think that the actors _are _their characters, which just isn't true. Okay? Good. :)

Now, onto something happier! :D I have a special surprise in store for you guys in this chapter. You can find it out by reading the line under the chapter title. ... Did you? No? Well, I'll tell you anyway! Yes, this chapter switches point of view to Rachel's. :D I once said I was going to write a companion piece to this story from Rachel's POV, but I don't see that happening anymore because it's just too much of an undertaking. But I had so much fun writing from Rachel's mindset in this chapter that I plan on using her POV in future chapters, especially if it's something you guys enjoy. :)

This story is not finished just because the girls FINALLY! got together (lol I know, I know; I should get a reward for Longest Freaking Build-Up to a Kiss, but I've always said that this story is not just a rush to romance). There are still quite a few loose threads of the plot that need to be tied. Besides, don't you want to actually _see_ the girls together before it's over? ;) I feel that you all are well past due for a chapter filled with fluffy, romantic goodness! I hope you enjoy, and please let me know what you think.

Again, thank you all for your graciousness, exuberance, and kindness toward me and this story. It means a lot. :') I love you! God bless.

Oh! And also, I almost forgot! I can't believe I hit 500 reviews, let alone more! XD That's amazing! You guys are amazing! Thank you, and please, keep it up. ;D

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><p><strong>CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE<strong>

**RACHEL**

I am kissing Quinn Fabray.

_I. Am. Kissing. Quinn. Fabray._

It almost doesn't feel real. I can't conceive that this perfection is really happening, to _me_, and not through a fantasy sequence on some movie screen. I have dreamed about this moment, when I let myself, for so long that to have it actually _happening_, and somehow even better than I imagined, is just…madness. Pure, beautiful, amazing _madness_.

I'm on top of her, and her arms are encircled around my waist so tightly, as if afraid to let go, and I'm grateful, for without them I think will float away, up to the ceiling, past it, through the roof, into the raining sky above. We're pressed together, one person, and I have _never_ been kissed like this, never known what it really meant, that word 'kiss.'

Quinn shows me with each nibble and tug of my lower lip; with each hand twining at the back of my neck, claiming me; with how her tongue runs down my neck to taste my skin. It's like…it's like…(I can barely think straight – _ha, _"straight!"… Oh, not anymore)…It's like my soul is singing a high-F, bellowing it loud and clear and with so much passion that, from the inside-out, I fear I'm going to explode. But I also sort of wish I would. You know, to maximize this deliciousness.

It's been hours, days, only minutes, seconds, since she marched through the hotel room door, told me how she really feels, and stole my heart for good, all in one fell-swoop. Time has lost meaning; all I know is the minty, Quinn-tastic taste of her lips savoring mine, the smell of her – so _sweet_ and girlie and decadent, like human sugar – filling my nostrils, and our hands exploring one another, tugging through hair and stroking faces and always pulling closer, closer, deeper tongues and moans and _I want, no NEED, more_, and it's so deliciously hot in here, our heat radiating through our dresses and –

_Knock. KnockknockKNOCK._

Our mouths wrench apart with a wondrous _smack_ of a noise; we rest our foreheads together, panting. I'm a weird blend of jumpiness and steadiness, my nerves and excitement on haywire but never more content. Never more _happy_, I should say, no, _jubilant_.

"Someone's at the door," I say, blinking my eyes open and finding Quinn's, just the span of our eyelashes away, gazing back at me. Hers are so bright and green and filled with hungry pupils, and she's sort of looking at me like she wants to eat me, and it's…okay, it's _really_ sexy. I feel the intensity of that look, right between my legs. Which are wrapped around hers, deliciously.

"They'll leave." Her voice is raw and even huskier than usual, and her tone is dismissive, distracted – it sends a shiver down my spine. She extracts a hand from my back to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. My hair is kind of crazy all over the place right now. I hope she finds it hot and not, you know, a hot mess.

"It could be an emergency," I find myself teasing, breathing the words an inch from hers, but pulling back each time she tries to press forward. My tone is low and flirty, and my head is swimming with need, and my stomach dips with anticipation each time she comes closer, almost kissing but not quite. I love every second of it, in every part of my body. A beautiful kind of torture, blissful agony. "There could be a fire, or some poor kid trapped in a well – "

She groans and launches forward, sending me sprawling on my back so she's on top this time. "Shut up," she moans, smashing our mouths together, seizing entrance with a hot, wet, wonderful tongue to caress mine. My eyelids flutter closed, hips buck upward; I grab at her, yanking her closer, my hands slipping on the fabric of her dress as I try to squeeze her perfect cheerleading ass, when –

_KNOCKKNOCKKNOCK_. An irritated huff from outside, followed by, "_Hello?_ Rachel? Are you in there?"

An unmistakable voice… _Oh, sweet Barbra, NO_.

Quinn stiffens and pulls away, leaving me gasping for air, the room spinning in time with my pulse.

"He'll go away." I'm so disorientated that I barely croak it out, but it's pleading, desperate to have her back on me.

An expression passes over Quinn's face, subtle but deep, and it takes me a second to realize it's fear. I sit up on my knees and cup her neck with my hands, making her lock eye-contact. "Baby, I don't _care_ that it's him, okay? I chose you. I _love you_." A tender smile spreads up my entire face, burning my eyes with shyness and conviction and all of my secret hopes and dreams about Quinn finally able to see the light.

"I know." It's a whisper, almost embarrassed, and the rawness of her eyes breaks my heart. "But it's _Finn_, you know? He's like your entire past. How can I compete with that?"

"But _you're _my future." Her eyes glow at that, her impossibly beautiful face lighting up. "There's no competition," I say. "You have it in the bag, babe."

"I'm so in love with you," she shakes her head, grinning so hard that her eyes squint adorably and I can see to the back of her perfect teeth.

I feel like I might cry, in the best possible way, and my smile is so wide that it hurts my cheeks. "Likewise." We kiss, soft and sweet.

Finn knocks again, more insistent. I've never heard him sound so annoyed. "Rachel, where have you been? Answer your freaking phone! The after-party started, like, an hour ago!"

"_Go away_," I grumble, not loud enough for him to hear, but kind of wishing he would. But then that would defeat the illusion that I'm not actually in here, not in bed with a woman – _the_ woman.

He does, finally – go away, that is. I turn toward the door and stare at it, listening to his footsteps stomp off, to the frustrated noises he makes under his breath.

When he's gone, I turn back toward Quinn and find that she's staring at the ceiling, exasperated, her hands playing with the end of her dress pooling around our laps.

"What's wrong?"

She snaps back to me. "Oh. _Ugh_, okay… Look, Rach, as much as I am loving, and I mean _luh-ving_ all of this" she gestures between us, and I assume she means all the hot-and-heavy yuminess "we have to put it on hold until you break up with that moron."

"What?" I toss out my most adorable pout, leaning forward to reveal as much cleavage as my small bust will allow. You know, push-up bras really do work wonders. "_Why?"_ It would probably be sexy, too, if it weren't for the whine that ruins my tone.

Quinn laughs and makes a big show of turning away from my breasts. "Please! Don't tempt me!"

"I feel like we're wearing too many clothes," I tease in a faux-ditzy voice, fanning my face with my hand and letting my other land on her knee and start pushing up her thigh, pale pink fabric seeping between my fingers. "And it's so _hot_ in here. I mean, all we've done is _kiss_ so far…"

"_Rachel_," it's half-laugh, half-reprimand, and she yanks her leg away from my naughty trail upward. We both giggle, and when we collect ourselves, she turns serious. "I just can't keep kissing you with a clear conscience until you break up with Finn. Because technically, you're cheating on him right now. And, damn it, I _wish_ he hadn't showed up because then I never would have even thought about it, about _him_" she crinkles her nose, so cute that I melt "but because he did, well, now…" She sighs. "I just want to know that I'm all yours. That you and Finn are _completely_ over."

"Of course we are!" I insist. "I haven't felt anything for him in a long time; I'd just been pretending, out of fear of what would happen if I didn't. Just because Finn doesn't know it yet, doesn't mean it's not true."

She smiles. "I know. But apparently I have morals now when it comes to this sort of thing. They are _super_ annoying, but I can't ignore them."

I sigh, but with less disappointment than I feel, not wanting to spoil this amazing night. "Fine, fine, you're right."

"What was that?" She smirks and leans her ear toward me.

"Ha-ha," I stick out my tongue. "I said _you're right_."

"Wait, one more time. Did you just admit that I'm _right?_" She feigns shock. "Wait, wait, what was that again?"

"You're impossible!" I shove her shoulders, playfully but hard enough that she lands on her back with a bounce. She reaches upward to seize my arms and pull me on top of her, brushing our noses together.

"But you love me," it's delicate, a breath, and she stares up at me from underneath the curl of her lush lashes.

"I do." I stare back at her, and she bites her lip in a bashful, happy, _gorgeous_ way…

She should really know better than to do irresistible stuff like that. I kiss her, feeling a peaceful sigh drift up from the depths of my body, tasting my sweet Quinn.

She kisses back, and this time I pull away, giving a half-shrug and half-smile. "Sorry. I couldn't help it."

"All right," she giggles, "One more for the road…" Our lips slide together, locking into place, and 'one more' turns into two, three, four, until the numbers fall away and I forget to keep count, even forget to breathe until my lungs ache for air.

"That should hold us over for a while," I pant.

She reaches up a hand, her smile lazy and eyes sparkling, and twirls her finger around a loose lock of my hair, 'round and 'round' and 'round, twirling tight, loose, tight again. "Speak for yourself."

* * *

><p>We decide that we really should make an appearance at the after-party.<p>

We only get one senior prom, but we'll have an infinite amount of nights to stay in kissing, I pointed out (even though my lips were begging me not to say the words, begging me to be quiet and kiss her instead).

It takes us a good fifteen minutes to get presentable. I brush my hair, all the thousand and one tangles, and reapply my red lipstick.

Quinn's hairdo is hopeless now, so she undoes the braided bun, letting her luscious, golden-blonde locks bounce down into a thick cloud of waves all around her shoulders. The tiny pink flowers still spring up around the top of her head, pinned in, though the rest of her hair is wild in _the_ sexiest way I've ever seen.

Seriously, I am not exaggerating, she looks so drop-dead, out-of-this-world gorgeous that when I turn away from the mirror to look at her, my hairbrush tumbles right from my hand and I gape at her, open-mouthed, dirty mind fantasizing about tackling her right back onto the bed and… _Focus, Rachel_.

Quinn puts on some more lipstick, too, hers a delicate shade of pink. She leans in toward the mirror in the bathroom, which means her butt sticks out, up in the air, the arch of her back graceful. My gaze is hungry as it watches her mouth dip and curve around the lipstick. She makes even the simplest acts seem erotic.

"You're making me regret choosing to leave this room," I say. She looks up from the mirror, capping the lipstick, and meets my eyes with a brilliant grin that steals my breath.

"Sorry," she says, but she doesn't sound apologetic at all, rather overjoyed. "But it _was_ your idea." She takes a step toward me, shaking out her hair – I imagine running my fingers through the silky-soft waves. "And it's not too late to change our minds."

"Nope, you are _not_ going to seduce me right now." I jab a finger at her, cock an eyebrow. "We have appearances to keep up, friends to socialize with, and more fun, senior prom memories to make."

She pouts – which is both the cutest and hottest thing _ever_. "Okay, if you insist…"

"I do. I insist!" I cross my arms and have to look off to the side, or she'll break me. _Stay strong! Hone your Broadway-bound perseverance, and don't give in…_

"You don't sound very adamant."

I fling her a wide-eyed, don't-mess-with-me look. "Oh, I'm plenty adamant."

"Oh really?" She raises her eyebrows, drags the words out, slow, dangerous.

I set my jaw and nod. "Yes."

Devilishness glints in Quinn's eyes, burning the hazel-green color with a fierceness that makes me think I might have just met my match, after all these years. Not being the most stubborn person in the room? For some reason, this makes me gleeful, knowing how alike we are; but I have to suppress it, choosing to remain stone-faced instead.

"Whatever you're thinking about doing," I say, "Don't."

Quinn leans back against the bathroom counter, arches a leg, and starts pulling her dress up until she's flashing skin, foot to ankle to shin to – _gulp _– thigh. "I don't know what you mean, Miss Berry." Curse that husky voice! "I'm just proving a point." She extends her leg, graceful, like a dancer; I flashback to not even a half hour ago – which feels much, much longer now – when that leg intertwined with mine.

After a mind-numbing, heart-pounding moment, I wrench my gaze from the naked flesh and up to her face instead…which is a mistake. I should have looked at the wall instead. Quinn's expression is… I believe Puck would use the phrase "sex bomb." She bites down on her lower lip, plumping it just so; her eyes are wild and glittering and, yet, somehow, maintain a façade of innocence; and her perfect little ski-slope nose is tilted at an angle to maximize its delicate shape.

I am so out of my element here.

She is _freaking Quinn Fabray! _Tall, blonde, angelic soprano, incredibly gorgeous, and those aren't even the best parts of her. She's also witty, smart, goofy, kind, and brave. She's the bravest person I've ever met in my life. How am I supposed to resist that? (Why do I even _want_ to resist that? Curse my stubborn nature!) And I'm…a Broadway-bound actress! Right! Okay, _focus, Rachel. _Only one thing to do… Make Barbra proud.

I have to clear my throat before speaking, and even then it's still dry, my pulse still erratic. Crossing my arms and looking off over her shoulder, I say, "Sorry, but you're going to have to do better than that. Flashing a little bit of leg? Please. Do you think I'm an amateur?"

From my peripheral vision, I see Quinn release the hem of her dress, letting it drape back over her leg, sealing the damned – and glorious – gam from my view. I release a little breath I hadn't known I was holding and return my stare to her. It's hard to look away from her for too long; my eyes beg me to go back.

"I didn't realize I was dealing with a pro," she says, now downright smirking, playful and teasing and, again, mischievous. "But I _won't_ be proven wrong." She takes a step toward me; I take one back.

She bursts out a laugh, all pretenses gone, now my bubbly and smiley Quinn again. "What are you doing?"

"Stopping you from seducing me!"

She laughs again. "Oh, so it's working, is it?" Her eyebrows waggle, ridiculous.

"No!" I say it too abruptly. "I mean… We're already late for the after-party…"

"Screw the after-party." Another step.

"_Quinn_…" I tell my legs to move; they don't.

She's right in front of me, those bright green, green eyes searing into mine. "Rachel…"

"Quinn," harsher this time, and desperate.

She's grinning like the cat that caught the canary...or should I say, songbird (my wit knows no bounds). "You're cute when you're freaking out but pretending like you're not freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out!" Maybe I would have sounded convincing if I hadn't, you know, _screamed_ that. Also if I hadn't thrown my arms wide and knocked my lipstick off the counter.

She arches one eyebrow, giggling, then lets her face soften. "I'm nervous, too, you know." She reaches out and grabs my hand, which I'm hesitant to give. She throws me a look. "Trust me." I do.

She presses the palm of my hand to her chest…which is, like, half on her perfect perky Quinn breast. Oh sweet Barbra… I'm distracted, sweating, wondering why breasts are so…curvy (I'm turning into Puck, oh help me!), when she says, "Do you feel that?"

My eyes widen. "Your breast?" It's a shriek. "Th-this is kind of moving too fast for me, Quinn; I mean, I – "

She drops my hand, fast, and turns bright red. Thankfully, her laugh isn't offended; rather, she sounds more embarrassed than I am. "Oh my God, no, I'm not a pervert! I wouldn't just make you… _Ugh_." She covers her face with her hands. "That was supposed to be my romantic, movie-worthy moment, but it's kind of ruined now."

"What do you mean?"

She peels her hands away; her face is returning back to its natural color. I hope mine is, too. "I was trying to have you feel my heartbeat, to see how it's going so fast. You know, going so fast because of _you_. But now I just look like a creep trying to get you to feel me up on prom night."

I can't help it; I crack up laughing, holding my side as I shake with guffaws. Quinn joins in; we collapse to the floor, gripping at each other's arms as we roll around on the tile…which would be gross, because I'm in my superexpensive dress, but I'll make an exception for this moment, soaking up the mirth and awkwardness and, _relief_, because this whole relationship thing, girl to girl, is so new for both of us.

"I didn't think you would be as...nervous about all of this as I am," I say once we've gained control. "I feel better knowing you're as much of a wreck as me."

Quinn's eyebrows shoot skyward. "Are you kidding me? I bet I'm even more nervous than you are! I've been pining for you since freshman year! Now that I've finally got my dream girl, I'm terrified I'll do something to mess it up."

"I'm your dream girl?" I smile, shy and jubilant and bursting with warmth.

She blushes and nods.

"Likewise." I reach out to brush the pad of my thumb down her face; she leans into it, smiling. "But don't worry about messing it up; you could never do anything that would change the way I feel about you. Sorry, but you're kind of stuck with me now."

Her eyes are soft, vulnerable, wide-open. "Do you promise?"

I nod, our eyes locked together, smiles locked into place.

"We should probably go to the after-party now," she says with a little sigh, kissing my thumb. Her lips are warm and gentle, and I can't help but release a tiny giggle at how sweet she is, how beautiful.

I'm glad that she's forgotten her pledge to resist me until I've officially broken up with Finn. I decide not to remind her.

"Maybe not _now_, per se." I draw my hand away from her and prop up on my elbows. "We're already an hour late; what's five more minutes?"

An adorable, cunning smile cuts up Quinn's dainty cheeks. "I like the way you think." She rolls into me, arm slinging around my waist, and our lips meet, like the first time all over again.

* * *

><p>Five minutes turns into fifteen minutes, and easily could have turned into more if Quinn hadn't drawn a reluctant sigh and insisted we go see our friends in the hotel suite we all pooled our money to afford. She made a good point (unfortunately), and I <em>do<em> want to go see our Glee family, but…

But can you blame me? You try kissing Quinn Fabray and then having to consciously stop yourself from more kissing and tell me it's easy! … Actually, no, don't do that! Because she is _mine_. But, I assure you, it is a very, _very_ hard thing to yank yourself out of, like a spell cast by a gorgeous blonde sorceress who tastes like pink and sugar.

It takes us a few minutes to brush our hair and reapply our lipstick, take two, but soon we're checking out cell phones (which we turned off after the first round of kissing began) and share a groan at all the texts and voicemails we've gathered. They're from various Glee members. We don't bother checking the voicemails right now, but the texts ask the same thing, in varying degrees of sobriety it seems: everyone wants to know where we are.

"Okay." I set my phone back on the nightstand and take a deep breath. "We're going to have to get our story straight before we go down there."

Quinn indulges in a chuckle.

"What?"

"You said 'straight.'" She winks. "I don't think that applies to your life anymore."

I laugh, shaking my head. "Yes, the thought crossed my mind…"

"Okay, well, you come up with an alibi for us while I listen to these voicemails."

As Quinn listens to her messages, I find my mind slipping elsewhere.

It's …_different_, I have to admit, to be…with a woman. Not weird at all, and especially not bad! Just…like I said, different. Brand-new. Sparkling and shiny and so very foreign. I feel like a Broadway actress pushed onto the stage, opening night, but without ever having read the script and having to improvise all the lines with her leading lady, hoping she doesn't get booed off the stage or have tomatoes thrown at her.

And yet, at the same time, it's so natural and easy, second nature, like breathing. I feel like I've been with Quinn my entire life.

Because the thing is, I've been falling for Quinn – slowly at first, and then faster and faster until I was spinning head-over-heels, no longer falling but _flying_ – for so long, that it doesn't feel sudden, this _awakening_ toward her, if you will. I love Quinn because she's _Quinn_, regardless of gender. I always thought of myself as heterosexual, but now I'm thinking I don't even care about a label. Unless you want to call me 'Quinn-sexual.' I think that has a rather cute ring to it, don't you? I'll gold star that one!

Anyway, it is strange, and admittedly more than a little scary (for some many reasons) to shed that label I had for so long, of being straight. Besides the occasional sex dream about Barbra Streisand or Patti LuPone – which I always chalked up toward my reverential admiration toward them manifesting into awed sexuality in my subconscious mind rather than any suppressed Sapphic desires – I never would have thought I could be attracted to a woman. I was so consumed with an unhealthy longing toward Finn and all he represented for so long, that I couldn't even imagine being attracted to _anyone_ other than him, actually.

But then came Quinn.

From the moment I first saw her, I was magnetized by her beauty, her grace, and how effortlessly popularity fell into her size-two lap. For the entire first semester of ninth grade, I admired from afar, more than once finding myself wishing to be her, or at least be _with_ her, as one of the friends she always had striding at her side.

I remember the first time I talked to her.

It wasn't a success, to put it mildly.

It was freshman year, algebra class, the second semester and the first time we shared a class. I'd watched her in the hallways, sure, but never had the opportunity to talk to her. How could I, when she was always flanked by girls far prettier and cooler than I?

She was only an alternate on the Cheerios back then, so she didn't have to wear her uniform during school. I remember she had worn a pale pink lacy dress that day, her hair bright blonde and loose around her shoulders, and I had a sudden thought: _I bet that's what angels look like_.

So, gathering my courage, I walked over to her desk at the back of the room (I sat front-row-center, of course, even then) and asked if I could borrow a pencil from her, even though I had an already-sharpened one waiting for me on my desktop.

I was so nervous that I stuttered and pronounced pencil as 'peeyencil,' which Santana, who had been sitting beside Quinn, teased me about for the rest of the year. (The _one_ time I didn't have perfect elocution, and the meanest girl in school had to be a witness.)

Quinn looked me up and down, wrinkled her nose, and sneered, "No, you'll chew all over it and get it infected with your loser-germs."

That had…stung, to say the least. Santana laughed _much_ harder than the putdown deserved, in my humble opinion; it hadn't been _that_ clever.

I held my head high and said, "It's just a pencil." But it felt like so much more, like she had rejected every part of me and not just that one request.

She shrugged one-shoulder.

Santana said, "You mean _peeyencil_, hick."

But my eyes stayed locked on Quinn's. And though her lips smirked at Santana's comment, I saw something in her eyes that made me know there was more to her than the cruelty she wore like a mask. Because, for just a second before she looked away, I saw something real. It was regret. Sadness. Guilt.

It was the fire I needed to fuel my desire to get to know her for _her_, as a person, and not just because she was beautiful and graceful and popular.

The next day, when I got to algebra class, there was an unopened packet of pencils on my desk. And not just any kind, but cute pink ones with shooting stars all over them.

A giant smile spreading across my face, I looked over at Quinn in the back of the room and caught her staring at me. She averted her gaze right away, pretending to root through her purse, but I caught a small, shy, and unmistakably _pleased_ smile playing at her lips.

When I found her alone at her locker later in the week and thanked her, of course she denied it and said I was "a delusional fool" for getting so grateful and excited about pencils in the first place. But I knew it was her. There was no mistaking that smile she'd tried to hide.

It was that simple act of kindness – and the one pencil I never used, still stashed in my bedroom in my desk drawer – that rooted my determination to become her friend. Over the years, when I endured countless insults and "Slushie facials" because of her, I need only flashback to that one token of goodwill to remind myself that it was worth it. That if I just kept trying, eventually I could make her see the connection I'd felt between us when our eyes locked that fateful day and hers had shown actual human emotion for once instead of her usual forced cruelty.

Maybe it's silly to you. A package of pencils, given to me in lieu of letting me borrow one of hers. Given to me in _secret_, no less, and not even owning up to it. But to my borderline friendless freshman self, it had been something. And now, thinking of how it helped get me _here_, to having Quinn as not only my best friend but the love of my life, I think that maybe it wasn't just something, but actually more of _everything_.

Her voice yanks me from my memories. "Jeez, _ten _messages, and the last two were definitely wasted."

I stare at her in awe as she throws her phone onto the two single beds that we pushed together into one bigger version, so we had more room to make-out.

She shakes her head, rolling her eyes, but a fond and amused smile plays at her pale pink lips.

She catches me unabashedly staring. "What?" There's a self-conscious chuckle as she pats along her face. "Do I have something on me?"

I shake my head, and say with complete adoration and conviction, "No. You're perfect."

She blushes and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, staring at her feet. Shy Quinn is the best, because she only comes out for me and _no one_ else. Seeing her bashful and flattered makes me feel as special as I do when I'm singing a solo.

Like I said, she's Broadway in a person.

"We should get going," she says. "Did you think of that alibi?"

"No. But I will, on the way there."

"Okay," Quinn holds out her hand, palm-up. "Then let's head on out."

Grinning, I slip my hand into hers, that perfect fit, our warm fingers interweaving in our own special loom. "Okay, but let's not stay there too long. Tonight, I want you all to myself."

Quinn lifts our hands and kisses the back of mine. "Don't tempt me, Miss Berry. Don't tempt me."

"I don't know," I sing-song, "I think it's my turn to do the seducing."

She bounces her eyebrows. "Oh really? And how are you going to – "

I interrupt her with my mouth crashing onto hers, my free hand seizing her waist and yanking our torsos together. We stumble backward, until she's sprawled half on the bed, with me straddling over her. I drop my other hand from hers and lift it to twine at the back of her neck, claiming.

She moans, lips parting and pressing up into mine, hard and needy. My tongue slips into her mouth, tasting; my blood is on fire, as is the area between my legs. Another groan, but I don't know if it's hers or mine.

My hand on her waist digs in deep, fingers stretching toward her ass. Her arms circle around me.

My eyes are squeezed shut; I see starbursts of light against the darkness. My head pounds with my heartbeat. When I'm about to pass out from lack of oxygen, I smack my mouth from hers and push away completely, half-skipping, half-stumbling to the door.

I'm giggling like a madwoman, looking over my shoulder and beaming at her. Her eyes flutter open, disoriented and annoyed.

"Where'd you go?" she asks in the cutest, groggiest voice ever, accentuated with a whine.

"You have to catch me," I tease, throwing open the door and full-on skipping outside, laughing and happy and feeling freer than I ever have in my life.

I don't even reach the elevator until Quinn is there, giggling adorably and just as wildly as me, grabbing my arms and spinning me to face her. We collide and bounce off each other, which makes us laugh harder, breathless, crashing into the wall to hold ourselves up.

Our eyes connect, bright and joyful and laughing with our lips.

"You caught me," I beam, boastful, as if I'm the one who should be proud.

Quinn smiles her perfect smile and reaches out a gentle hand, smoothing some wayward hairs out of my face. "Always," she says.

And just like that, I fall in love all over again.


	46. Chapter 46

And we're back to Quinn's POV! I hope you enjoy. :D Also, my birthday was yesterday (same day as Hagrid's; what, what!), and you know what would be an awesome belated birthday present? Reviews! xD

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER FORTY-SIX<strong>

The elevator doors slide open, revealing the fourth floor of the hotel.

Okay, we _may_ have taken longer to get here, considering we pushed every button on the panel and rode it all the way through, so we had extra kissing time. A few times, fellow McKinley students or other hotel guests hopped aboard the elevator, so we had to play it coy, but for the most part, it was just us, alone together (my new favorite oxymoron, bar none).

We're holding hands, walking so close that our hips are practically chaffing each other's, and we keep almost tripping – clumsiness is a side-effect of love, I suppose…well, love and high-heels.

The grand suite is located at the end of the empty hallway. It seems miles away from where I stand. I stop in my tracks, tugging Rachel to a halt with me.

"Baby," I say.

Her face brightens into a surprised, giddy grin at the pet name; it heats me up from the inside-out. "Yeah?"

"We still haven't come up with that alibi." I stroke my fingers along the side of her hand, grab her other one, swing them together between us just because I can. Touching her is like a drug; I never want to stop.

She shrugs, smile as goofy-happy as I feel. "I'm sure they'll all be too drunk to interrogate us much. We could probably convince them we were there the whole time, if we wanted."

I laugh at that. "Oh God…" I've seen our friends drunk, and let's just say, it is _not_ pretty for most of them. "I don't think that's going to work. Because, well… I kind of made a spectacle of myself earlier."

"What do you mean?"

Blushing, I recount the tale of running over to Kurt and most of our group after the last song, demanding to know which room she and Finn had rented, and then _sprinting_ through the hotel to find her. "Considering how damn _nosy_ our friends are, I'm sure they're going out of their minds wondering why I acted like that."

Rachel's smiling like a fool, gazing up at the ceiling. She gives a dreamy sigh. "You really ran after me, like something out of a romantic-comedy?"

I giggle and nod, putting on my serious face. "Yes, but _focus_, Rachel. We're about to enter a gossip warzone, I'm sure. Now, what are we going to tell them?"

She pinches her lips together and "_hmm_"s, cocking her head and squinting to the side. I try thinking of something, too, but a suitable reason for why we were MIA for _two hours_ without so much as a text of response to our friends is hard to fabricate, especially on the spot like this, and _especially_ when I'm holding Rachel's hands and my eyes keep sneaking peeks at those plump, perfect, delectable lips that my own were tasting in the elevator not even a minute ago.

"You know," I say. "I don't want to pressure you, but…how about the truth?"

Rachel's eyes widen. "No!"

I draw back as if slapped.

"I-I mean…" She takes a deep breath. "Don't take that the wrong way, please. I just…I want to tell my parents first, okay? And I don't want to come out on _prom_ _night_, to our surely inebriated friends, one of whom thinks he's still my boyfriend. When I tell people about us, I want it to be…special. Magical. Like how I feel when I'm with you." She's smiling shyly, earnestly, and any offense I had at first has melted in place of understanding and flattery.

"Of course," I say. "We'll tell them when you're ready. It definitely doesn't have to be tonight. Because, you know, I like having you all to myself, as our little secret." I grin and step into her, my fingers dancing at her hips. She giggles and blinks up at me from her long, curly eyelashes. We're leaning in for a kiss, when –

_Ding!_

The elevator doors pop open. I look over and give a tiny shriek of surprise, dropping my hands from Rachel and jumping a step back from her.

"What?" she demands. "Are my palms sweaty or – "

"Artie!" I hiss at her, widening my eyes and jerking my head toward the elevator.

Rachel spins halfway to face where I gesture; her eyes grow even larger than mine. "Oh."

Artie would have seen us already had he not been trying to wheel himself out of the elevator and gotten one of his wheels caught against the side. It's obvious, even from five feet away, that he's drunk. His eyes are bright but glassy behind his glasses, which are lopsided, and the mutterings under his breath are getting louder and far more…_colorful_.

"Should we help him?" Rachel asks, but backs away, standing beside me. She speaks in a hushed tone, staring at him with a calm posture but nervous eyes, as if he's a wild animal that's just crossed our path in the jungle.

It's more than a little ridiculous, her reaction, and I would laugh at it…if my own heartbeat wasn't quickening and making me kind of jumpy. "I think he's got it," I say, and we watch as he dislodges the wheel from its snag and proceeds out of the elevator. There's a bottle-shaped brown paper bag in his lap, sticking up from between his legs at an angle that makes me giggle, maturity be damned. I nudge Rachel in the side, pointing at it as Artie passes us, not even noticing we're there.

Rachel bursts out her own giggle; her hand claps over her mouth too late.

Artie stops and, with jerky, exaggerated movements, turns himself around to face us. He blinks a few times, pushes up his glasses, squints, blinks again… Finally, recognition dawns on his face. A slow, lazy grin spreads up his face like melting butter. "_Quiiiinnn! Rrachel!_" I recognize that slurring voice from one of my voicemails earlier. I think drunk people stumble a fine line between amusing and _annoying_, but I can't help but to smile back at Artie. He looks so happy to see us – albeit confused, too, as if he just woke up from a long nap. "Wherrre 'ave you two pretty ladies been all – _hiccup _– night?"

He wheels toward us, too fast, stopping just before he runs over my foot. I wince at the pain that could have been and take a step back; Rachel follows. Drinking and wheeling should be illegal.

"Wow, Artie," Rachel fans the air at his alcohol-fumed breath. "You sure know how to hit the liquor."

He lifts up the brown paper bag, smiling proudly. "Fourth bottle t'night."

Rachel is appalled. "For yourself?! You could get alcohol poisoning!"

"Chill, lil' mama," he says, and gives an indifferent _pffft_ – which unfortunately saturates our immediate area with more of his breath. Rachel and I exchange half-amused and half-disgusted expressions. "This is for erryone."

Rachel reaches over and snatches the bottle from him. "Nope, sorry, but I'm cutting you off."

"Hey! That's not – _hiccup_ – that's…" He blinks to himself, forgetting his train of thought mid-sentence. "Yeah." He scratches his nose and nearly pokes an eye out.

I can't help it; I'm snickering. And relieved. He's far too wasted to interrogate us over where we've been all night. Maybe the rest of the group will be this way, too. Which also means we won't have to stay but for a minute or two, and then it's back to our private room. _Mmmmm…_

"Come on." I seize the back handles of Artie's wheelchair and spin him around so I can push him forward. "We're going to get you some water and try to sober you up."

"If that's even possible," Rachel says, holding the bottle of champagne or wine as far as her arm will stretch, as if it's a snake that could strike any minute. "He's drunk as a skunk."

"Aw, a drunk skunk!" I coo. "That would be so cute to see! I wonder if they have that on YouTube."

"Quinn! That is animal cruelty! Forced inebriation, unlawful behavior, not to mention if the poor thing is underage – "

I snicker. "Chill, Rach. I'm _joking_."

We've reached the hotel suite by now.

"You ready for this?" I ask. "Time to face the music."

Rachel nods, brave-warrior-woman face hardening her countenance. "You betcha."

"Hey!" Artie's never sounded more indignant… or bewildered. "Where's my bottle?!"

I pat the top of his head.

Rachel shakes her head and rolls her eyes. "Gee, I hope we don't have more of _this_ to look forward to in there."

"If there is, we'll leave early."

"In that case," a wicked grin, an eyebrow bounce, "I hope we _do_."

I laugh. "Just knock on the door, Casanova."

She does. My heart pounds, hands tighten around Artie's handlebars. Here we go, the moment of truth…

The door swings open to reveal…Blaine. Mid-dance: his hips swinging, fingers snapping, head bobbing. A goofy but admittedly adorable grin on his face, eyes squinted so that I can't detect them for sobriety level. His diamond-encrusted bowtie is loosened at a jaunty angle, as if even it's a little tipsy and has been partying hard. Music pounds behind him, not loud enough for a noise complaint, but just shy of so. It's all bass beat, the _thumpthumpthump_ matching my heartbeat, beating into my bones. I find my foot tapping.

Blaine's eyes open enough to take us in; they're not bloodshot, but not entirely lucid either, and I don't know if I'm grateful for that or not. "Hey, guys!" I don't think he's drunk yet, but from the red Solo cup (what's a party without them?) filled with what looks like bubbling champagne, he's on his way to getting there. "It's about time you got here!" He's looking at Rachel, his triangle eyebrows high up his forehead, grinning at her like '_well?!_' I don't understand why he's so expectant, curious, _excited_, as if they share a secret.

"Here," she says in lieu of explanation, thrusting the brown paper bottle at him. Blaine takes it, pulls off the wrapping to reveal some cheap pink-colored wine lurking beneath.

"Oh, Artie," he tsks, swinging a pointed look down at the boy – who has been humming incoherently to himself, some song about butts. "You were supposed to get vodka, not more Strawberry Hill!"

"You're berating him not because he brought alcohol to a party for minors, but because he brought the wrong _kind_ of alcohol?" Rachel says.

"Hey, if you're going to drink, might as well do it right," Blaine gives a carefree shrug and matching smile. He starts dancing again, in that full-body, lead-with-his-neck way he has, turning on his heel and leaving the door wide-open as he booty-shakes his way through the suite.

"He took my bottle." Artie sounds so pathetic, disbelieving how anything so cruel could happen. He stretches his upper torso so he can twist his neck to look at me, brow furrowed and mouth gaping. "He took my bottle!"

"Shhh," I purse my lips in sympathy and help him flop back into a natural sitting position.

With a push, I send Artie's wheelchair into the room, where it rolls to a stop by the fancily-papered wall. Not to sound mean or anything, but I'm not going to be his babysitter all night.

Resisting the urge to take Rachel's hand, I lead the way into the room, with her right on my heels.

As soon as she's closed the door behind us, we stop, surveying the scene.

The suite is set up like a large living room, with a door at the side that leads to the adjoining bedroom and bathroom. The big pull-out couch and four chairs have been pushed to the side, over by the desk, leaving a vast space open for a dance floor. The lights are dimmed. Somebody's iPod plays a fun, party mix on the dock in the corner. The wall-to-wall window has its curtains peeled open to reveal the view outside, which is black with rain streaking down the glass, a few twinkling lights out in the distance that might be from other buildings, might be stars.

It smells sticky, like sweat and beer and soda. Shoes have been shed, thrown in the corner, along with the ladies' (and Kurt's) purses. I spot Santana's Prom Queen roses and Finn's Prom King hat and scepter propped up on the mini bar with a reverential clean space around them, like a radius of popularity protecting the items from various plastic cups, liquor bottles, soda cans, and crinkled bags of chips.

All of the Glee Club (plus Artie's date, Avery, who is dancing with a beaded throw pillow in a manner that suggests she is just as drunk as he is) is here, in varying levels of intoxication. No one has any lampshades on their head, at least.

Most are dancing; some are standing around, talking and sipping their beverage of choice; but all seem to be having a great time. Well, all but Finn, who sits slumped in a chair, the only one sitting down. His arms are crossed and scowl is fierce.

The song changes; I think I recognize the opening beat, but before the first lyric is sang to help me place it, Tina spots me and Rachel and shouts, drowning out the music, "OHMYGOD, THEY'RE HEEERREEE!"

So, of course, everyone stops what they're doing to look at us.

An explosion of voices: the too-loud babble of drunken people and the more sober one's cheerful squeals, coming toward us in a herd of fancy dresses and penguin tuxes.

"Quinn! Rachel! You late motherfuckers!" Santana reaches us first, latching a hand to one of my and Rachel's wrists, and yanking us so hard to the middle of the room that I almost feel my shoulder pop.

"Yeah, there's a difference between _fashionably_ late and _last-season-now-seen-in-K-Mart_ late," Kurt scolds, top-hat still fabulous as ever on his head. He holds a bottle of water and doesn't seem the least bit tipsy…

Unlike Santana, whose eyes are rimmed as red as her dress, and whose sparkling tiara is caught lopsided at the top of her tangled ringlets, like it's trying to make a break for it. She releases our wrists; I rub mine, cringing.

"I know; I know," I say. "We're sorry."

It's more than a little unnerving, with _everyone_ circled around us like a band of starving buzzers. Well, except for Artie and Avery; he's fallen asleep in his wheelchair, snoring softly, and Avery is still dancing with the pillow, oblivious to the group-meeting going on just two feet to her left.

I watch Finn approach and squeeze in between Mercedes and Sam, who had been holding hands and now glare at him for his rudeness. But I don't think he did it on purpose; he was too distracted, if the expression on his face is any indicator, staring at Rachel with narrowed eyes. I can't tell if he's angry, suspicious, disappointed…maybe all three.

"What _took _you guys so long?" Brittany demands, slinging an arm around her girlfriend's waist. Her eyes have to keep refocusing on us, like she's about to sway out of her own body. "It's been, like, _two hours_, and everyone is pretty much drunk right now, including me! You missed playing Twister, where my backbend won me a bag of chips. You missed _chips_, Quinn and Rachel! And…" She squints at her. "…other Rachel. Wait, you have a twin?!" She squeals and does a twirl, almost knocking herself and her less-than-steady girlfriend to the ground. "This is even more awesome than Doritos!"

"Okay!" Rachel says in an annoyed, authoritative tone. "By a show of hands, how many people are actually _sober?_"

Only Sam, Mercedes, Kurt, and, surprisingly, Puck raise their hands. Brittany raises her foot, giggles, then a look of _uh-oh_ crosses her face as she falls over, landing on her butt. "The room is spinning," she whimpers.

"I've only had three wine coolers!" Blaine says, _loudly_, with an oh-so-proud smile as he thrusts out his cup, nearly sloshing its contents onto the carpet. I wince, imagining the damage that would cost.

"Blaine," Kurt scolds, grabbing the shorter boy's elbow to steady him. "And you mean _four_ wine coolers. Plus that champagne."

"Exactly!" Blaine beams. "Only five wine coolers! Thasswhat I said!" He takes a hearty gulp from his drink.

"Oh my God." Rachel claps her hands over her face. "You guys couldn't have a fun night you could actually _remember_ the next morning? You all had to get _drunk?_ What a waste!"

"No, a _waste_ is you being _two hours_ late," Finn speaks up, his tone hard and hot, glaring at her. "We waited around for you guys for a half-hour, but neither one of you even replied to _a single text_." Though he addresses us both, he looks only at her; I watch her, too, for just a second, hating the guilt I see her struggling to stop from running all over her face. "You weren't at your room when I went by, and…you never came to _my_ room, and…" He loses steam, slipping from indignity to a sad exhaustion. "Where the hell have you been, Rachel?"

"Yeah, what have you guys been doing?" Sam asks. "You could have at least brought some snacks to share or something. We're running low on pretzels."

"Tell us _all_ the details of your adventure," a shiny-eyed Tina begs. "Did you run into a celebrity in the lobby? Did you almost get arrested?"

"And, Quinn, why did you run like a bat out of hell to get to Finn and Rachel's hotel room?" Mike 'Just as Nosy as His Girlfriend' Chang asks. No wonder they make such a good couple; they should try tag-team interrogating on warlords. "It seemed really important." He blinks. "Like…_really_ important."

"So," Tina says, "Tell us! What have you guys been up to?"

Everyone falls completely silent as they wait for an answer.

And in possibly the _worst _timing _ever, _the song that's been playing in background can now be heard, loud and clear.

'_I kissed a girl and I liked it!'_

_Oh my God._

Rachel bursts into laughter, and after a stunned second, I do, too, so hard that my abs shake and tears form in my eyes. We look at each other, and that makes us sober up, fast, horror at our reaction replacing the mirth on our faces as we stare out at our circle of friends. If they were curious before, they're confused, _suspicious_ now.

I start to panic.

"What the…" Mercedes squints at us, lips pursing.

"What's so funny?" Finn looks hurt. "Are you guys laughing at me?"

I hazard another glance at Rachel; her face is pale. Lower lip is trembling. I remember what she said, about wanting to tell her parents first. About wanting to wait until the right moment to tell our friends. Not here. Not now. Not like this. In the worst possible way: outted by pop song. And not even a Lady Gaga one.

'…_It felt so wrong; it felt so right…'_

_Oh my God, shut UP, Katy Perry!_

Our friends are exchanging glances; Kurt is _definitely_ on to us (and looks delighted about it), Blaine appears in deep thought – but at his drink, staring into its contents as if its speaking to him, Sam and Mercedes are whispering, when –

God sends us a Mohawked angel.

"It's me," Puck says, stepping forward from beside Tina and Mike. "They were laughing because I was pretending to hump Tina."

"What the hell!" Tina shrieks, slapping him on the arm.

"Not cool, dude." Mike shakes his head and pulls Tina into his side, glaring at Puck.

"Yes!" I say, nodding and sending Puck a discreet 'thank you' with my eyes. He gives a subtle nod. "Yes, we were laughing at Puck. Sorry, Tina."

Rachel releases a shaky breath.

"Enough grilling us," I say, throwing my shoulders back into HBIC mode. My eyes command the room. Puck has given me the boost of confidence I needed. "Rachel and I were working on a surprise for everyone that you won't get until sometime later in the week. And once you find out what it is, you're going to feel bad about questioning us like this and spoiling the mood. So, everybody, stop staring, and start dancing!"

The song has ended and is transitioning into another; I lead by example and begin swaying my hips and waving my arms above my head. As far as I'm concerned, this discussion is _over_.

It works. The circle breaks away and they go back to (seemingly, but probably not really) minding their own business, dancing or drinking or, in Santana and Brittany's case, rolling around on the floor and complaining loudly that someone needs to make the room stop spinning.

Rachel slips up closer beside me and whispers right in my ear, in a faux-swoon, "My _hero_." Her warm breath skitters shivers down my neck.

I wink at her. "Don't thank me yet." I gesture my head toward Sam and Mercedes, who are leaning toward one another, necks bent, whispering, as they keep sneaking glances at us. "I think our more sober friends are onto us. But I don't think they'll start anything tonight."

"Yeah, you were pretty authoritative with shutting them up," she says. Her eyes dart around; apparently, nobody is watching, for she gives me a lightning-fast pinch on the butt. My eyes pop wide and I laugh, trying to look offended but finding it too cute and amusing of her. "It was really hot." Rachel bites down on her lower lip, looks up from beneath a curtain of thick lashes.

"Oh, you like it when I'm bossy, huh?" I raise my eyebrows, smirk.

She opens her mouth to respond when a large figure looms over us, smelling of cologne. "Rachel?"

We turn to find Finn, shoulders squared with his arms folded over his broad chest, a frown all over his face.

She blanches. "Y-yes?"

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" He swings hardened eyes my way; rather than shrink, I make myself taller, staring right back at him. But he's already bringing his gaze back to Rachel. "_Alone?_"

Rachel looks to me, a thousand emotions fighting across her face, but one is clearer above the others: she's asking for my permission.

"Of course," I say with an encouraging little smile. "I really need to go talk to Puck, anyway."

I watch as Finn leads her away, to the door that leads to the adjoining bedroom. He opens it up for her, but before she goes in, she casts one last look over her shoulder at me. I grin and give her a goofy thumbs-up, and I watch as she allows herself to smile back. I can see the giggle in her eyes from here, but then she's serious again, turning to follow Finn into the room. The door shuts, and I feel alone, even though there are people all around me.

_It's okay, _I tell myself. But imagining her alone with Finn, just the two of them in that room… I trust her, but I don't trust _him_. Not that he would hurt her, but what if he tries to kiss her? What if, when she breaks up with him, he insults her and wounds her with his words, makes her cry? All I know is, whatever happens, I will be here for here, always.

Puck stands off to the side; when my eyes find him, I see that he's been watching me. He bounces his eyebrows and grins, beckoning me toward him with a quick, crooked finger.

My mouth responds before my feet do, grinning right back at him, and then I'm walking over, feeling hit with a fresh burst of happiness.

"Heya, handsome," I say when I'm right in front of him. "Surprised to see you haven't already hit the booze."

"Yeah, that's all _your_ fault." He wags a mock-stern finger at me. "I was waiting until you and Rachel got here before I let myself, you know, so I would be sober when we celebrated."

"Celebrated what?"

"You finally getting together with her!" he says with ample '_duh_.'

"Oh, yeah, you noticed that," I dance my shoulders, put on an oh-so-blasé expression even though my lips are fighting to grin like nothing else.

"Hell yeah I did! Now tell me, what were you guys _really_ doing for two hours?" He waggles his eyebrows. "Please spare no gory details."

I shove at his shoulder, laughing; he laughs back, grabs me at the waist, and starts to noogie on top of my head until I catch his fist, just in time.

"No way, Puckerman!" I wrangle myself out of his grip, trying to look scolding but giggling too hard.

"You know," he says, cocking his head. "You really are the worst prom date ever."

I make a protesting noise, but he holds up his hand. "No, seriously. You ditched me on the first slow dance of the night, and then on the last one, you spent the whole time staring at another girl and telling me how you love her. Then, you leave me alone for the after-party, where I can't even have a drink because I'm too busy waiting for you two horny monkeys to show up."

I smile at him softly, shaking my head. He's really something else, isn't he?

"You know what?" I say, lifting my eyebrows high but my smile higher. "I'll make it up to you right now." I hold out my hand, fingers wiggling. "Dance with me."

"You don't have to tell me twice, Fabray," he grins, takes my hand, and we start dancing like dorks as the music changes to a fast-tempo, fun song.

He twirls me around, my dress fanning against my ankles, and I close my eyes, basking in this perfect moment, yet another one to add to an ever-growing list of what has by far turned out to be my favorite night.


End file.
